Cascading Shifts (SYOT)
by WhateverIsOpen
Summary: The 99th Annual Hunger Games are fast approaching, and with a capricious decision made, the Head Gamemaker has been relieved of his duty. The power vacuum left behind was hastily filled, whimsically so. The impact? A ripple that will surge through the entirety of Panem and shake it down to its core. SYOT CLOSED
1. Prologue I

_Cocinero de los Dioses, The Capitol. _

_10:13PM, 10 months before The Hunger Games..._

I plunge my knife into the still sizzling meat and watch absently as the juices ooze and run down the side of the steak. I repeat the motion three more times, if only to distract myself. My dining company is very uninteresting after all. They've been spewing mindless drivel about their 'successes and wealth' for hours now. One can only imagine how there's even any room for us with all of these egos present.

I stab my knife into my steak one final time and cast a gaze towards everyone at my table. They're chatting rambunctiously among themselves like children at a party.

_Sigh_.

Fight fire with fire I suppose.

"This bores me," I say petulantly, not that my whining does anything to anger the men and women sitting around the table with me.

In fact, you could say this one very phrase, sliced through all conversations and instilled a level of unimpeded fear into the hearts of every single one of them. I can't help but smirk at that. The perks of being king I suppose.

"M-mister, President sir, I ap-"

"Silence," I order. The man's teeth snap together with an audible click.

"You, the one in the neon green, what are we here for?" I ask, pointing a finger at the random man in question.

He visibly flinches but quickly sings my praises like a trained dog, "y-yes, sir. Allow me to begin with how much of an honour it i-"

"I think I won't. Leave my table," I say abruptly, turning to point at the women in complete hot pink, from her eyes, hair, dress, nails, you name it, it's sickeningly sweet. Well, now that I'm aware of her, it's probably her perfume to be honest.

"My president, we're here to celebrate the astounding success of the previous Hunger Games, under your blazing gui-"

"Incorrect, Pinky. Also, you annoy me. Leave my table," I interrupt between a yawn, I raise one hand to my mouth and shoo her with the other.

I snap my gaze away from the fumbling women to another. My gaze lingers, she's… under-dressed, compared to the rest of my pet monkeys at least. I smirk, let's see her dance.

"You, why are we here, make it quick. 10 words or less," I instruct.

The brunette woman blinks at me and takes only a moment to adjust her glasses before speaking, "we're here to discuss the next Hunger Games, President Nova."

My brows raise. No squirming? No bluster? No praising? Huh, potential, I guess. Says what kind of state the Capitol is in if normalcy is all It takes to impress me. Regardless, I let my surprise wash off my features before my lopsided grin returns.

"BINGO! You get to stay, what's your name?"

"He-"

"She's my assistant, but sir, surely we can rest assured after the grand success of the previous Hunger Games, no?"

I tilt my head in confusion. Who is this guy?

"Head Gamemaker Orion Dashlow sir," The man responded proudly, seemingly unaware of my withering glare.

I asked that out loud? Well yikes. So it seems I need to replace my Gamemaker since this incompetent idiot is at the helm.

"Not anymore, fired and executed for all I care," I say dismissively.

The man's face drains of all colour, or it could be the mascara running, whatever the case two peacekeepers come and swoop him up and drag him away, naturally he doesn't take it well and protests in the form of harpy screeches. No class nowadays.

"Again, since I was so rudely interrupted, what's your name?"

"Helen Levenezque, sir," she replies courteously.

Finally, someone to the point, and not instantly singing their own praises like their God's gift to Panem.

"Great, Miss Levenezque, you're the new Head Gamemaker. This isn't a problem for you, is it?" I ask.

"Of course not. We are here to discuss the 99th Games after all," She answers smartly.

My smile thins marginally, cheeky shit. My grin returns back in full force, I can respect someone with spine!

"Great, great! Sure last games were good with Onion at the helm, but we need to strive for better."

"Orion sir," a man nervously says, correcting me, I think.

"Sure, Orion, whatever," I say flippantly.

"Sir, is there something you wish to aim for?" Gamemaker Levenezque asks, reigning in the topic.

"I wish to avoid stagnation and to strive towards elevation. Whatever you do, make it better than the last."

"Sir, the last Hunger Games were one of our best, a three way battle to crown a Victor was gripping 'till the very last second!" One buffoon reasons

"The arena was marvelous, long rolling hills, it made all the encounters all the bloodier!" Another agrees.

"I understand sir, I have something in mind," my newly appointed Gamemaker assures me.

I stare at her skeptically, but the glint in her eyes does wonders to sway me, my smile morphs from carefree to sadistically sinister.

"Then, let's discuss."

* * *

_Panem Files #1 – The 74__th__ Hunger Games _

_The 74__th__ Hunger Games ended with Thresh Harveston the victor, the Feast being the deciding factor. The girl from District 2 slit the throat of the girl from 12 and watched as her lifeblood slowly drowned her. In her blissful satisfaction, the girl from 2 was unaware of Thresh, who heard the girl gloat about killing his district partner. In his rage he smashed her against the cornucopia and beat her face in with the pommel of his blade. The boy from District 2 eventually arrived and saw the grizzly state of his district partner. He fell into a rage of his own and attacked with reckless abandoned. His advantage was his technique, and with that absent due to clouded judgment, the battle fell to which of the two were bigger. Thresh cleaved the boy's sword arm off before hacking at his collarbone in a gruesome finale. But, not before taking a severe wound to his stomach and losing an ear. 3 Cannons went off during that feast, and one more 24 hours later, signalling the death of the boy from 12, who succumbed to his wounds and infection without the proper medicine. With the finale approaching, the girl from District 5 was eventually herded back to the cornucopia by Mutts. This was where the 74__th__ Hunger Games ended in an unceremonious fashion as Thresh ambushed her. Being better equipped and ultimately not needing to move from the cornucopia to begin with, gave him the sight advantage. The audience were left with a boring ending, but all would agree that the true finale ended with the Feast._

* * *

**This is my attempt at a SYOT. I'll admit though, I'm a bit nervous, my memory on The Hunger Games is super ancient. Nearly 6 or 7 years ago, ****so forgive me if I forget anything ****obvious****. I wonder if these are still as popular as they once were. On another note, this is an AU where Katniss never won, and the rebellion never could take off, thus continuing the bloody sport game. I'll continue to give more insights on this world through my trusty Panem Files, and narration of course. If you're getting a sense of deja-vu. You'd be right. This was previously named Crumbling Tectonics, but I've already decided to change that. Moreover, I reuploaded with my Rating at T, to generate more attention too. Hope this doesn't come off as scumy to any of you. **

**Anyways, onto the main reason why you're all here!**

**RULES:**

**1.) Not first come, first serve. However, since there are 24 tributes spots. I'm not going to be overly critical of submissions. I don't have a deadline, but would like to start writing as soon as possible. So, I'll likely accept tributes I like.**

**(Reservations are No longer applicable as there is only one Spot left.)**

**2.) No Review submissions, They won't be accepted no matter what, submitting a character that has appeared in reviews will also, NOT be accepted.**

**3.) No Sues or Canon related tributes. Would likely mess with my plot. (If you make a persuasive argument for the latter of my two restrictions, I might consider it. I would advise against it however).**

**4.) You can submit as many characters as you like. But, I'm more of a quality over quantity person. Depending on how many submissions I receive. I might limit how many get accepted per submitter.**

**5.) Delete everything I have in (brackets) for your submission. As well as my explanation to the Ranking System I have below. I don't need to know what the ranking system is, after all.**

**6.) Remember to have fun, and know that your character is probably going to die! Isn't it grand!**

General Information

**Name (Nicknames)**:

**District**: (1-12)

**Age**: (12-18)

**Gender**:

**Appearance**: (What do they look like?, from weight, to height, ethnicity, hair colour, eye colour, hair style, body shape and even what they usually wear. Any blemishes on their skin? Scars, tattoos, piercings? What kind of accessories do they use, if any? If you wish to divide some of these things into their respective category, feel free to do so.)

**Personality**: (What's their mannerisms? What are they like? What's their likes, their dislikes?)

**Background/History**: (Try to keep them consistent to the continuity of their district.)

**Family/Friends**: (Names, one sentences for their relations to the person, help me populate their families!)

**Reaped/Volunteered**:

**Reason to Volunteer/Reaction to Reaped**: (Unless a career, why would they risk their lives for this? Revenge, save a love one? Has nothing to lose, delusions of grandeur? One sentence or two. If they didn't volunteer, what are their internal thoughts like the moment their name is called? Calm, panicked, indifferent, resigned, crying? Again, one sentence or two.)

Hunger Games

**Allies or Solo**: (would they try to team up? What kind of allies would they prefer? Or venture into the games alone?)

**Strategy during Training/Interviews**: (What do they show the gamemakers? What do they try to learn during training? What angle do they take during the interviews?)

**Strategy in the Arena**: (Do they rush the cornucopia, how do they deal with the bloodbath? What's their gameplan after it? Can build off their strategy from training and interviews too.)

**Weapon of Choice**: (Optional. Whether it be an actual weapon or tricks and traps).

**Token**: (Optional)

**Greatest Strength**: (What could cause them to win the games?)

**Greatest Weakness**: (What could cause them to lose the games?)

**Fears/Phobias**: (Hmm, wonder what this is for? Anyways, if they don't have phobias, what's their greatest irrational fear…)

Ranking System

From a scale of 1-10, 1 being the worst, 10 being the best, I want you to rate your tribute in the respective categories. No explanation is needed, but if you wish to provide one I'm all for it!

**Survival**: (How well can they scavenge, gather and procure shelter? Can they tell north from south, know anything about wild game, wild berries, the dangers of the wilderness? What's their odds of surviving in the wild?)

**Athleticism**: (Are they physically fit? How so, are they agile? Good lateral movements? Do they have good balance? Are they healthy?)

**Intellect**: (How book smart are they? How well do they know things, can they apply their understanding into action? How easily do they pick up new things?)

**Wisdom**: (How street smart are they? Are they capable of rationalizing and reasoning? How well can they grasp the situation, how well can they act and adapt?)

**Emotional**: (What's their mental state like, can they handle the death around them, do they thrive under the thousands watching them? Or, will they snap under the pressure? Can they remain poised, or are prone to losing it?)

**Social**: (How well can they charm people, how well can they talk to others, are they charismatic? Can they rally people to them, or perhaps manipulate them?)

**Anything I missed**: (Optional. Anything that you would like to add, feel free to do so here!)


	2. Prologue II

Cascading Shifts Chapter 2

_Presidential Palace, The Capitol_

_9:34PM, 6 months before The Hunger Games…_

You'd think after six years I've developed some method to put up with this gaudy dinner party. Yet, here I stand, President of Panem, like some sort of wallflower. I sigh into my cup but otherwise do not make a move to rectify the assessment.

It's not that I'm even alone, I'm surrounded by dozens of gamemakers, investors, wealthy families, business heirs and so forth. I just pointedly ignore them all. Not that they truly mind whether I pay attention or not. I grant them enough prestige just by being around them.

I'd love to think it's my hubris bloating my delusional ego beyond proportions, but, taking a quick glance around the capitolites swarming me, suggests I could be a mannequin for all they care.

The company's abysmal. I can sympathize with the Victor in that regard, he looks positively swamped. Granted, his face has been permanently etched into one of anxious paranoia ever since he's left the arena. He has big swollen bags under his eyes that not even his stylists can hide. No one will comment about it, unless it's to ask about the fashion statement he's trying to make. Anything can become a fad to the Capitol's people so long as you squint enough.

I check my watch, seeing as it's close to 10, I think I'm safe to go congratulate the Victor than retire for the night. With this in mind, I part the group around me and march dutifully towards the man in question.

He's a lot thinner than I remembered. During the games, he was a hulking beast of a man, stocky shoulders, muscles trying to burst through his shirt, standing at around 6'2, the whole shebang. A heavy favourite from the start, Baxton Fullhouser of District 10.

To think only months later he's a shell of his former self. I fight down the smirk that threatens to creep onto my face. Instead I gently tap the man's shoulder, and internally relish in his flinch.

"Greetings, enjoying yourself?" I ask.

Hazel eyes dart from side to side, before shakily landing on me, he nods mutely once, before clearing his throat and answering, "y-yes president. I'm having a wonderful time."

I snort despite myself. The lie could physically harm someone with how forceful it was. I don't make mention of it, "I'm glad to hear it, I want to congratulate you on your victory in the Hunger Games."

He flinches again, and his eyes go foggy, no doubt reliving the event in an instance. His face twitches and his right hand subconsciously moves to his stomach, where the boy from 4 nearly succeeded in gutting out his intestines.

"…thank-you, mister president," he chokes out.

I smile in feigned kindness, "It's my pleasure."

* * *

_Presidential Palace, The Capitol_

_11:46AM, 5 months before The Hunger Games…_

I inspect the bottle dispassionately, rotating it in my hand. My face stares back at me, listless and exhausted. To be expected, I've been drowning in paperwork since 8. With the Victory Tour and celebration complete, I am packed at the seams with letters and gifts. Not that there's a time where gifts are in short supply, they just tend to ramp up during Hunger Games related activities.

This bottle of wine is one of countless others, just a mere drop of water that is the vast ocean of my rewards.

Poison perhaps?

That might be my cynicism speaking. Then again, I'm only here because of such a ploy. So, it'd probably be best If I refrain from the day drinking. I put the bottle down on my desk and shift my focus onto the stacks of papers.

Countless projects and expenses needing my approval no doubt. I skim through them, not being so crass or idiotic to blindly sign away. They're all uninteresting, wall repairs, peacekeeper projects, some animal muttations, and then logistics even more dull and stale than those.

I'm rubbing away the throbbing pain of a migraine when one paper draws my attention, it's from my newest Head Gamemaker, Levenezque. Truthfully, I wouldn't have been able to recall her name if it wasn't written before me. It's certainly a mouth full.

This expense though, these numbers, what is she trying to do? Hoard the western ocean?

…

She can't be serious.

I hold onto the paper as a push the swivel chair to a glide across the room, towards my phone.

"Hey, get Head Gamemaker Leve…Levenezque here, immediately," I say bastardizing the name as I read it.

"Yes mister President," The lady on the other end answers.

I hang up, and dust myself as I wait.

Then after a few seconds it comes to my attention that she's probably hundreds of miles away and begrudgingly get back to signing papers.

* * *

_Presidential Palace, The Capitol_

_3 months before The Hunger Games…_

"President Nova," The brunette greets, adjusting her glasses as she does so.

It's obviously a tell, whether it means she's excited, nervous, sad or angry is unfortunately up in the air. Her face is always perfectly stoic no matter how often I find myself speaking with her. The perpetuality of her calm agitates me, as if she's in on some grand conspiracy and I'm the one who'll end up with the bullet in my head.

"Gamemaker," I respond, nodding my head, "the state of the arena?" I prompt.

"Swimmingly," She responds, her tone leveled and face impassive.

My gaze hardens, in return, her blue eyes crinkle in amusement. Cheeky doesn't even begin to describe her. She's just waiting for me to drop the execution order over her head.

"A report on the arena then," I finally say as the stretch of silence extends into awkward levels.

"We're making good time, the main terraforming procedures are just wrapping up. We've decided on several muttations to use and are working on the more… intricate aspects of the arenas now."

I hum my acknowledgment as I nod my head. Intricate is one way to put it, what she wants to do is just unfeasible. Still, the arena without her more outlandish features is still respectable, if not plain.

It encourages combat, and that's hardly something the capitolites would complain about. Of course, there's always the problem most Gamemakers fall into the trap of doing, getting fixated on their ideas. Ultimately, stalling progress in all other regards for the sake of their ideal arena.

"Satisfy my curiosity, but what inspired you to take this approach?"

The women contemplates my question before saying, "should I apologize?"

I raise an eyebrow, "for?"

"I always disliked your style of arenas," she explains.

I blink before conceding the point with a shrug of my shoulders.

Due to my presidency, no one has mentioned my previous occupation. Probably because they'd assume it a slight against me. Whatever the case, it's actually a refreshing change of pace. I've not had the luxury to reminisce about my time as gamemaker. Thinking back, I did always like to make colourful arenas, taking heavy inspiration from the second Quarter Quell. As a result, I was directly responsible for the deaths of 19 tributes during my three year tenure.

All my games were successful, I was adored by the Capitol.

No one batted an eye when my predecessor passed away suddenly.

No one batted an eye when I became president.

The relationship between President and Gamemaker is a volatile one. Gamemakers rarely ever have a peaceful retirement, and Presidents are the direct reason for that misfortune. It's why I can't shake the feeling she's trying to usurp me. I've done it before.

"I always had a whimsical approach to my arenas," I eventually say, watching her reaction.

Or lack thereof. She nods in agreement but doesn't so much as respond to my remark but answer my initial question, "My inspiration, I guess it technically would be Seneca Crane."

My eyes narrow. The one gamemaker I wish I could forget the name of. The one gamemaker that made me forget all the others. Inspiration? A laughable notion, his arenas were disgustingly uninspired. A forest by the lake, a desert by the lake and an island to name a few. All so very boring, so dull, so plain.

Of course, that all took an unexpected turn when he was at the helm of the Third Quarter Quell. Now that was an interesting arena. It was jarringly different to all his others' that any gamemaker worth their salt could tell he wasn't the one who behind it. District 13, the real 13's empty husk of a city was used as the arena. It's people, executed, how a hidden civilization was discovered so abruptly is a mystery I don't see a need to solve. But I digress, instead of repopulating the district with civilians from all the others, 13 was made an example of. To remind the districts of the Capitol's overwhelming power.

That kind of political power move would never have been made by such a conforming underachiever like Crane. The true creator of that arena was my predecessor, my presidential predecessor. Coriolanus Snow.

Crane didn't have any other memorable arena, or any other piece of inspiring work for that matter. Thus, my new gamemaker could only be referring to one person, the person actually responsible for the quarter quell, not the one who 'technically' was.

She's inspired by Snow.

"I must take my leave now, it was my pleasure talking to you President Nova," she says.

Her tone sounds amused to my ears. Her face crinkles maleficently to my eyes. Her arena… it's foreboding to my thoughts.

"Once more, my name is Helen Levenezque, I hope you can come to remember it," She says her parting words with a bow before closing the door before her.

I find myself sighing a breath of relief, and immediately curse my cowardice. Damn that old man, even in death he still finds way's to hold my life over my head.

Inspired by Snow. The mere thought riddles me with shivers.

* * *

_Panem Files #2 – Third Quarter Quell_

_On the eve of the of the Third Quarter Quell, the beloved late President Snow decreed: that the short-sightedness and actions of the rebels condemned their future generations of youths to make penance for the childish behaviour displayed. Tributes can only be from the ages of 12-13 in the Hunger Games. _

_The late President Snow was unsatisfied with the insurgency demonstrated in the previous games and wanted to punish the districts, to firmly place them under his boot. He additionally, wanted to destroy everything the girl from 12 ever loved. His machinations had unexpected results._

_These Hunger Games broke multiple records, those being: the youngest ever victor, the second time a tribute has been reaped and finally the second time a district has won a Quarter Quell. All of these made possible by the 75__th__ Victor, Primrose Everdeen. _

_The Quarter Quell lasted 13 days. With the majority of the tributes being incredibly young and inexperienced, there weren't any favourites. Most lacked the assertiveness to attack others and tended to flee on sight, prolonging the games in the rather small arena. The cornucopia only supplied weaponry, but even then only 8 died in the blood bath. 5 more died to other tributes. The rest died to Gamemaker intervention, varying from monster rat muttations, toxic chemical leaks, explosions and poisonous gasses. _

_Primrose won those games with two kills to her name, The first, unknowingly by leaving behind contaminated water in her camp that the girl from 9 stole and used. The second, by trapping the boy from 7 inside a poisonous room to choke on, crowning her the victor. _

_She was affected greatly by both the 74__th__ and 75__th__ Hunger Games respectively, a small compromise that President Snow was more than happy to allow for the sudden obedience of the districts._

* * *

**AN: More world building. That's what I'm going for here. I got pairs of tributes now to actually write some Reapings. I was not expecting that. 5 tributes, 2 pairs is really lucky! This however presented a problem to me. I was intending on having 4 prologue pieces, to fit one Panem File at the end of each. But now it'd just feel bad if I ignored the pairs of tributes I have, ya know? So, I decided to make this a bit of a more exposition, world building heavy chapter and go to the reapings next. On a side note, I just want people to know my knowledge of the canon is ancient, and although I actively skim through the books and constantly search the internet, I know I might make some continuity errors. All I can ask is that you roll with them. What I'm writing tries to serve the narrative, it is an AU too. **

**Speaking of the narrative, this subplot I have going on will fall to the backburner once I have more tributes and the Hunger Games themselves take focus. This is a SYOT after all! Anyways, submit away! I could use submissions! **


	3. District 8 Reapings

_District 8, 10:12AM_

_POV - Velvet Snidjer _

Velvet walks down the cobble road in content silence, having just finished dragging her friend out the door. Aven Centino looks a bit frazzled by the abruptness of it all, patting down his dress shirt where the wrinkles formed and dusting his pant legs.

"You'll keep your promise, right?" Velvet asks suddenly, looking at her friend from the corner of her brown eyes.

"That's a tough one, keep the promise or suffer your ire… hmm, let me think on it," Aven responds, raising his hands as if weighing the options.

"Thinking? My, you're really pulling all the stops, huh?" The tall girl answers teasingly.

The two laughed for a few seconds before quickly sobering, "I'll keep the promise... Baize will hate me for it, though."

"You'll manage," She says matter-of-factly.

Regardless, Aven does have a point. Her twin brother would definitely despise the circumstances if it comes down to it. Baize and her did everything together as if attached to the hip. People who've seen them would go so far to say they shared a brain. No pair of siblings, twin or otherwise should be able to finish each other's sentences with as frightening accuracy as they did.

"I'll raise hell in your stead," Aven says with a wide grin.

"Cool your jets there revolutionary, I don't plan on becoming a martyr just yet."

Although the idea does appeal to her, in a twisted 'if-I-die-I'll-go-in-a-bang' kind of way. She shrugs her shoulders as the thought leaves her.

"Speaking of Baize, we probably shouldn't keep your brother waiting."

"Thinking and sound judgement? You're really on a roll today," Velvet praises with a smile plastered on her face.

"So are you," Aven comments offhandedly.

"A girl's has to make her own entertainment somehow," She shrugs unapologetically.

Her friend shakes his head in response, not dragging the topic further. She does what she wants, not like he could or would even want to have her change that. The two round the corner and are quickly confronted by Velvet's two closest friends, her twin brother Baize and neighbour Mika.

"Told you they were running late," the girl says, placating Baize.

He sighs, "I guess so, what took you two so long?"

"She attacked me, kidnapped me and dragged my ass out of my very own home," Aven weeps, wiping away at fake tears.

Baize and Mika turn deadpan stares to Velvet expectantly, "Don't forget the bagel," she finally says.

"How could I! It was your greatest crime," He snaps back, sounding far more genuine in his complaints than before.

Velvet opens her mouth, but clamps it shut when Mika asks, "Is that why you weren't over for breakfast?"

"Yep, we were actually discussing what to do after the reaping. Probably put purple dye into the shampoo inventory at the peacekeeping barracks,"

"Oh that's good, But laxatives in their coffee would be better," Aven suggests.

"Didn't the Hemmings guy do that already?" Baize asks distractedly, his fingers absently running across the fabric of his flared pants.

"Did he? How tasteless," Mika says, scrunching her nose at the image.

Velvet doesn't comment, instead she claps her hands together loudly, promptly causing all eyes to land on her, she wears a grin and places her hands on the backs of Mika and Baize, ignoring how the former flinches to the touch.

Velvet's short raven hair bobs to the movement as she marches forcefully, pushing her two friends forward. She ducks her head between their own and beams at them, her gaze rotating between brother and neighbour.

"Alright, enough stalling! Let's get this thing over with so we can go back and have lunch, it's on Aven!" Velvet exclaims exuberantly.

"Since when?"

"Since now! Let's go before we're late," Velvet says over her shoulder.

"We're already late because of you and Aven!" Mika reminds exasperatedly.

Velvet laughs before saying, "that's exactly why he's paying for lunch!"

* * *

_10:29AM_

_POV – Nylon Hemmings_

Nylon hisses as he recoils from the prickling sensation, swiping his hand through the air in a futile attempt to alleviate the sting. He finally decides to suck on his finger, much to the chagrin of the peacekeeper responsible of tallying all of the children.

"Quit being a baby and move it," The man grunts, jabbing his thumb towards the group of already nervously waiting children behind him.

"A googoo gaagaa to you too friend," Nylon says offhandedly, waving away the man's concerns, but adhering to his request.

The pale skinned teen skips through the crowds, waving at and greeting anyone who meets his dark brown eyes. He doesn't receive too many responses in return, but it doesn't deter his mood. Today- despite the obvious nerve-racking elephant in the room, is turning out to be a splendid morning.

He got his brother, Rayon earlier today with slipping a few eggs under his pillow, then got little Thena by spiking her orange juice with hot sauce. Nothing overly serious, but enough that his siblings gave him the stink eye for hours.

It was perfect, they couldn't take their glares off him! He was already in the works for another prank he'd do to the shop owner across the street, and his bos- okay, maybe he shouldn't prank his boss.

But that just means Thena's going to have to take the plunge and get a flour bomb to blow up in her room again. She's going to totally hate him for weeks!

Nylon shuffles between some boys his age and eventually finds a cozy spot in the 16 years old section near the front. He stays still for all of one minute before his patience runs thin. He quickly devolves to tapping his foot in annoyance.

He waits painstakingly as the final possible tribute candidates make their way to the now crowded plaza. A bunch of kids roughly around his age. He waves at one and points to his side excitedly. After a few seconds of contemplation, the teen begrudgingly moves to stand beside him.

"Nylon, nice to meet'cha," he says, sticking his hand out towards the boy now idling to his right.

"I know who you are, Also I can see the glitterpack in your hand" the boy replies, gesturing with a nod of his head towards the suspended limb.

The teen's arms remain crossed against his chest and Nylon's smile stiffens and falters slightly. His hand awkwardly returns back to his side. Before he can recover, the anthem blares through the courtyard. It silences all the nervous chatter and draws the attention forward, to the stage and podium at its center.

The mayor is standing beside a woman wearing an interesting mirage of purples. District 8's escort, Cleontra or some name like that. Not that he feels justified to judge, he's cognizant of his name and how ridiculous it is. He may have developed a hobby for pranking, but his parents will always have the last laugh.

The mayor clears his throat and delivers a speech immediately after the anthem ends, and then a documentary movie plays. Nylon's eyes go foggy as he takes the time to think of some elaborate pranks he can play, tempting the idea of pranking the mayor before deciding against getting himself executed over a stink bomb.

The movie finishes and his attention snaps back to the escort. She squeals in delight and quickly get's 'the show' on the road.

There's complete silence, with only the clicks of the escort's heels periodically disrupting it. She stops in front of the large glass ball and pauses as her gaze travels over the girls' section, to her left from on top of the stage. She pries the lid open and slowly fits her hand into it, plunging her gloved fingers into the sea of folded sheets.

She stirs her hand methodically through the papers as if she's attempting to stir honey, She rotates her wrist three times before ripping out her hand from the ball. A single folded slip between her fingers.

She marches to the microphone, "District 8's female tribute for the 99th Hunger Games is…" The woman clears her throat before finishing cheerily, "Velvet Snidjer!"

* * *

_10:51 AM_

_POV – Velvet Snidjer _

Like a hammer to hot iron, the reality of the situation sets in instantaneously. Velvet swallows thickly but forces herself to smile. She pointedly refuses to look to her left, knowing Aven and Baize are likely fuming, likely willing to do something very stupid in her name.

She also doesn't trust herself to remain as composed as she is if she sees Baize's reaction. She can't afford to break down. She glances to the giant screen and sees her face in a serene smile, if not a bit strained. The cameras are rolling, this is live broadcast to all across the Capitol. The games have already began.

A path's cleared for her, to the stage, one she takes the moment she notices peacekeepers advance on her position. She can't afford to appear weak, or she'll be written off by potential sponsors. She's tall for her age, 5'8, when she's not slouching at least. She could use this somehow, use her height to her advantage. She's also nimble, and just as quick on her feet as she is with her brain. She has a chance so long as she survives the bloodbath, a real chance, she knows it. She continues to remain transfixed on her internal thoughts as she makes her way up the stairs.

She stands beside Cleopatra, district 8's escort, _her_ _escort_. The woman looks over Velvet's outfit and then takes a second to judge it before nodding with a pleased expression on her face. The pantsuit Velvet wears complements her height well, not to mention it's vibrant and joyful colours of pinks, light blues and oranges are a refreshing change to the sea of purples and greys down in front of the stage.

"Now, onto the males!" Cleopatra chirps excitedly.

It makes Velvet feel nauseous, but she continues to smile and stare ahead of her, looking towards the factory skyline in the distance. She can't bring herself to meet the gaze of any of her friends. She just can't risk it.

"Nylon Hemmings!" the escort exclaims.

Despite herself, Velvet's gaze wanders to find her district partner. She immediately regrets it. Nylon appears to be just as fine as she's pretending to be, going so far as to shoot finger guns towards people and laugh excitedly. Her attention quickly falls away from him in favour of the two boys to his side.

Aven's gripping Baize, forcefully restraining him from moving. It looks as if Aven's very touch is excruciating for her twin brother to be held in, his face is twitching in agonizing grief as he continues to fruitlessly attempt to break away from the taller boy's clutch. Not that said taller boy is faring much better, looking positively murderous, his eyes darken, and mouth falling into a severe scowl.

Velvet feels her composure wavering and glances towards the screen again. Instead of seeing a weak and strained smile as she expects to see by this point, she sees her mouth in a pencil thin line and her expression stony. When did she stop?

"Ya know, when I said I'd kill to get a better paying job, I wasn't actually being serious," Nylon stage whispers to her.

Velvet tilts her head to the side, and slowly turns to face him, her stony stoicism still in place. He smiles goofily in return.

"Give an applause to your two tributes! And may the odds be ever in their favour!" Cleopatra shouts.

The claps are lacklustre at best.

The rest of the reaping ends listlessly and soon peacekeepers come and escorts both Velvet and Nylon to separate guest rooms in the city hall. It's modest, with a coffee table and two dull purple couches across it. On the table is a narrow long flower vase with purple hyacinths nestled in.

Velvet only just manages to take a seat when the doors slam open furiously. Baize storming in, with Mika and Aven trailing behind.

"Why?" He demands.

"You're going to have to be-"

"-More specific? Why did you-" Baize abruptly stops, the bite in his tone deflating, "why did you have Aven stop me?" Baize concludes in a quiet murmur.

He sounds broken, sounds defeated, and that thought pains Velvet more than being reaped ever could.

"I… where's dad?"

"He pushed himself showing up, I d- don't try and distract me!" Baize catches his lapse and finds his anger surfacing again.

"Baize," Velvet tries again.

"Don't tell me it's for me. It's not for me," He says.

"Fine. You're right. It's not for you. It's for me," Velvet snaps, her anger dissipates as she continues before her brother or anyone else can get a word in edgewise, "there can only be a single victor, you can't actually volunteer for me, you know that. You can only volunteer for the male tribute. How am I going to win this if I have to worry about you the whole time, hmm?"

The joke's weak, and doesn't land with her peers, she continues undeterred, "I'll be back before you guys even know it, then, Aven will have to buy us all dinner on top of the lunch to celebrate."

"Velvet… Do I have a say in this?" Aven eventually asks, indulging her antics.

"Not a chance, why else would I keep you around," She winks at him playfully.

He rolls his eyes, but smiles, "Don't be too long."

"I'll complete my infiltration mission and report back to headquarters, revolutionary Centino," She intones, raising her hand up to mock salute.

Aven salutes back jokingly, but she can see his gaze is distant, serious, cold.

"You… you can win," Baize says, steeping forward to hug her tightly.

"You got that right, besides there's still all-"

"-the hell we need to raise. Yeah, I know," he finishes quietly.

* * *

_11:03AM_

_POV – Nylon Hemmings_

Thena holds his neck in a vice grip, promptly squeezing the air out of him, "T-Thena s-save it for the g-games at least,"

"Nyl, take this seriously for fuck's sake," Rayon shouts, throwing his hand out in frustration before shakily running it through his shaggy brown hair.

Nylon eventually pries his little sister off his throat, but allows her to bury her face into his chest. He stares at his brother with a dark glare before it washes away, "I am being serious, see? This is my serious face," The brunet explains, puffing his cheeks and crossing his eyes.

"Are yo-" Rayon stops when he hears Thena giggle in between her silent sobs.

"You still laugh at faces? Are you sure you've grown at all missy?" Nylon playfully asks, running his fingers up her ribs.

She swats at his hands and pushes herself up and away from him in giggling protests, her sleeves going up to her puffy eyes. Rayon sighs before taking a step back, letting his parents step forward.

"Nyl," his father begins, looking and sounding so very tired, "your pranks, use them."

Nylon nods mutely, understanding what it means. Although he preferred childish pranks that had instant gratification for minimal effort, he also appreciated the complex ones that required trip wiring, methodical planning and at times stealth. He became somewhat adept at it.

"I… we love you so much sweetie," His mother says, planting a kiss on his forehead.

"I know," He responds returning their affection with just as much in kind.

The peacekeepers enter and usher his family out soon after, leaving him alone in the room. His smile falls from his face. He doesn't have any other visitors.

Once on the train and hidden in the confinements of his room, he slumps to the floor and whimpers in silence.

* * *

_Panem Files #3 - President of Panem_

_Name: Aquarion Nova_

_Gender: Male_

_Age: 28_

_Term: Currently 6 years_

_Height: (REDACTED)_

_Weight: (REDACTED)_

_Biography: President Nova didn't start his career in politics, they started in the industry of gamemakers. The Nova family had a meteoric rise to fame due to having multiple prolific gamemakers throughout the last half century. His grandfather was the first to truly establish the expectation of all Nova gamemakers, during the 50th Hunger Games. President Nova served as Head Gamemaker during the 90th-92nd Hunger Games at the humble and young age of 20. He gained a popular following due to the intricate, obscure and viciousness of his arenas. His inspiration was his grandfather, and it reflected in the poisonous fauna and merciless muttations present in his own arenas. Immediately after his final Hunger Games, he shifted focus from creating arenas, to creating a better future for Panem. He started his presidential tenure on the eve of the 93rd Hunger Games. His rise in political prominence is shrouded in mystery, and there's conspiratorial speculation of foul play by rivaling political parties of the Capitol. Regardless, with investigations fruitless and President Nova's ravenous passion for The Hunger Games still persisting, he's accumulated a powerful backing by the majority of the Capitol, as they see him a worthy successor to the late President Snow._

* * *

**Author Note: Holy, 1 down, 11 to go! I think I'll follow a pretty repetitive pattern though. Reaping then goodbyes. I'll try to make them each fresh, but with 12 reapings, 24 total tributes, I can't see it being too engaging. I'll try to give all reapings the same effort I did this one! I just hope I don't run out of gas. I've found starting them is the hardest part, but once I get it going, it feels like smooth sailing. Of course the more I write about these wonderful characters, the more conscious I become! Screwing up character portrayals is becoming one of my greatest fears as a SYO(T/C) writer. **

**If you had to describe Velvet and Nylon in a single word, what would it be? **


	4. District 3 Reapings

_District 3, 8:12AM _

_POV – Magnus Flux_

He stops, panting heavily and runs a sleeve across his glistening forehead. He forces himself to stand up straight despite the screaming protests of his legs and proceeds into cool down exercises. After those, he allows himself to sit and do a few stretches, letting his tight muscles slowly uncoil.

He steadies his breathing as his green eyes drift to the smooth cobble ceiling. It's a comfortable sight, one he's seen for years. He eventually pries himself off the floor and makes his way through the labyrinth like facility.

The best way to describe the facility is: a labyrinth. Multiple corridors that led in and out of multiple open spaced rooms. He dorms are the furthest, and he finds himself walking through virtually every other room before finally arriving at his own.

He strips from his sweaty training garb and steps into the shower. He's efficient and done in 4 minutes before stepping out of the bathroom. His gaze immediately zeroes itself onto the dress shirt, pants and shoes neatly sprawled on top of his bed.

They weren't there before. He has his suspicions and decides to slip them on before exiting the room. The maze-like hallways are an inconvenience, but one Magnus learned to tolerate. Admittedly, if he did design the building, he would have likely simplified it a great deal.

He pushes double doors open and enters a brightly lit training room, with dummies and equipment sprinkled all around. In the center, two figures stand and discuss overtop a tablet. They stop and turn to face him, "Magnus, I see the clothing fits you," the taller one says.

"Rotemn, Raleed, correct, they are my size," He answers, nodding his head to each as he greets them.

Magnus long ago came to realize that those names were fake and used for when they spoke to him. He can't bring himself to care for their real names, all his life he's known them as Rotemn and Raleed.

They aren't his parents though, they made that abundantly clear. He's not an orphan either, not in the conventional sense at least. Abandoned by his parents was what Rotemn told him. The older man doesn't have a reason to lie to him about it either, so Magnus is safe to take it at face value.

"You're prepared for today, yes?" The taller one, Rotemn says.

"I've optimized my training for weeks now, the progression although initially minuscule, has proven to improve my endurance," Magnus reports, his hands resting behind his back.

"Good, once you're reaped today, you'll be on the camera. You are to remain expressionless," The woman, Raleed says.

"Of co-, reaped? I was under the impression I would volunteer?" Magnus asks, raising an eyebrow confusingly.

"You'd draw too much attention, 1 and 2 may have grown complacent, but not brain dead, they'll become suspicious of you. Rightfully so," Raleed explains.

Magnus concedes the point with a nod, "I suppose I would volunteer if not reaped then?"

"No, you will be reaped," Raleed corrects trivially.

Magnus furrows his brows but doesn't press the matter. Raleed was not one to trifle with. She'd make anyone who annoys her suffer through extensive exercise and bruising spars.

"Beyond that, you are to avoid affiliating with your mentor or district partner, they'll hinder your goal," Rotemn continues after an awkward cough.

The bald teen nods in understanding, "Any additional precautions?"

"Do not paint a target on your back. Do not do anything conspicuous and mentally prepare yourself for the games," Rotemn lists, extending a finger per point raised.

There's silence throughout the empty training room before Raleed speaks again, "It is prudent that you maintain absolute secrecy on OnRush. Not a word the moment you go through those doors," The woman instructs, her gaze remains on the teen as she points towards the sole entrance and exit of the facility.

"As you say," Magnus says, finishing with a bow.

"Good, head to the plaza center, you know where it is," The taller man says.

Magnus nods again before briskly making his way to the door. He stops and quickly ducks back into the hallway. The two adults stare unblinkingly, startled by the development. Before either of them can voice their concerns, Magnus comes through the double doors again, this time, with a black beanie on top his head.

He nods their way before venturing outwards, oblivious to the exasperated sighs of the two remaining in the room.

* * *

_9:03AM_

_POV - Tesla Eddison _

The eggs start to sizzle and pop, drawing Tesla's attention away from her book. She settles it on the table and quickly fetches a spatula. She quietly works, scrambling them before fetching two pieces of sliced beard.

She plops them into the toaster and continues to supervise her eggs. Once her meal finishes cooking, she puts it on plate and makes her way towards the dining room.

It's empty. To be expected, her parents are very busy people. Her father is always on business trips, some even to the Capitol. And her mother is essentially the head of research here in District 3. They are highly respected, but with that respect comes the unshakable burden of responsibility.

Sure, it gets lonely from time to time. But, they feed her, cloth her, shelter her and despite their forced distance, undoubtedly love her.

Or, they could be aliens that came from the stars and are away at the moment to recharge, probably eating away at some of the electrical grids spread across the district, there's a wide abundance of them here in District 3 after all. It would be entirely fool proof.

Tesla takes a modest bite from her toast before she realizes aliens haven't been confirmed yet. So she may have been bit overzealous there in her analysis.

She washes her dishes and finishes preparing for the reaping. She fetches her favourite googles and straps them around her neck as she makes her way out her house. Due to her parent's diligence, she comes from the wealthy section of the city, putting her rather close to the plaza that holds the reapings. Even so, given her countless walks, she can say with security that she knows most of the more obscure reading spots the district has to offer, she knows the district like the back of her hand, as cliché the saying is.

She finds herself early, emphasized by the deserted plaza, with only a dozen possible candidates present. They're awkwardly standing alone and far apart from one another, as if trying to take up the entire space as best they can.

Or perhaps, they're Capitol spies sent there early to moonlight as young children to keep a close eye on the candidate tributes.

Tesla shrugs, they have the peacekeepers for that, no poi- unless, unless that's exactly what the Capitol wants you to think! Then, they really are spies from the Capitol. Tesla straightens her posture instinctively. The peacekeeper looks at her funnily, a quirked eyebrow on the woman's face. It's a rather harmless expression but immediately rips down Tesla's theory on Capitol spies.

She sticks her finger out and buries her nose into her book. The reaping is no excuse to stop learning after all. She feels the prickle and routinely takes her finger away.

She nods to the peacekeeper and makes her way to the plaza before being instructed. She stands where she approximates the 15 yaer old females will line up in and invests her entire attention to the book in hand.

She's engrossed, and only snaps her head up when she hears the anthem blare through the speakers.

She feels a bit disorientated as the corner of her vision swims from the sudden overload, especially so when she checks her surroundings. Waves of people stand around her, packed together closely in the plaza. She folds the page she's on and closes her book. District 11 has such a wide variety of plants and flowers. The book's contents are a bit overwhelming at first glance, but beyond her initial observation, an interesting topic to learn about.

She dutifully watches the documentary movie that plays, lip syncing word for word. Then, she pays attention to the speech delivered by the mayor. It's different every year, but the essence remains the same. The Capitol is punishing the rebels, the Hunger Games are important for peace and harmony, and that district 3's tributes are lucky to be elected.

The escort from 3, Valla Ruddingstin wastes no time at all, greeting the district as if she's attending a concert.

Tesla's attention snaps to the speakers, then to the large screen, already half imagining what a concert would look like if here in District 3. Her mind wanders further, picturing The Hunger Games as nothing more than a competitive concert game that pits the districts together to have the biggest performance ever. With the tech District 3 have, they would no doubt be the heavy superiors. With District 5 and themselves as Career concerters, concertees? Co-

"Tesla Eddison!"

Tesla's hazy brown eyes refocus, and she blinks a few times. They said Tesla right? That's her name. Granted, Tesla is the most common name in District 3 for the last four years running so perha- they said her last name too didn't they?

She stares at Valla and points a thin finger to herself with a tilt of her head. The escort's green lips grow wide, revealing a pearly white smile as she nods exuberantly.

The brunette looks up to the big screen again, and sure enough, there she is. Even if her face isn't showing in the screen, she can tell, the red streak running down her hair is indisputable evidence. She put that there explicitly to stand out.

Well, it certainly stands out now. She does too now that she thinks about it, she peels her eyes off of the screen to look around her, the other girls have given her a wide berth, avoiding her as if she's terminally ill with something contagious.

She supposes that the Hunger Games would be terminal, but certainly not contagious once contracted, just imagining it makes her scrunch her brows in concentration, the Hunger Games strand, kills 23 random children between the ages of 12-18, with the last sickly patient having life-lasting lingering effects. But, at least they get compensated for the rest of their life afterwards.

A peacekeeper forcefully grabs her arm and yanks her forward. She doesn't resist and is lifted off the ground, she trips over her feet and nearly stumbles over before finding her balance.

She ducks her head sheepishly as she walks down the row, the sound of her escort encouraging her to get onto the stage. It's only then that she realizes through the commotion, she's lost her book. She turns, as if making to go for it, but freezes when her brown eyes land on the white uniforms of the two peacekeepers trailing her.

"Be my guest…" One of them says, baton in hand, twitching in what Tesla assumes is anticipation.

She wisely ignores his offer and takes the steps up to the stage. Her throat constricts as hundreds of eyes land on her, gazing unflinchingly on her person. She feels small, and now with her confusion leaving, she's feeling scared too. She keeps her face down, eyes glued to the marble smooth floor, she can't stop the grimace from smearing itself all over her face.

"District 3's male tribute is…" Valla pauses, allowing for the suspense to build, she slowly unfolds the slip and clears her throat, "Magnus Flux."

Tesla's eyes remain on the floor. Almost immediately, she hears the sound of steps against marble. Whoever was reaped, he was fast about it.

Only when a shadow passes before her feet does she lift her eyes and look at her district partner for the first time.

Her first impression is that he's tall and fit. A contender for the games no doubt. But, it all pales in comparison to his expression. Or lack thereof. His face is passive, a vast improvement to her no doubt distraught and defeated look. He appears as if he expects to be here, as if he belongs in this kind of environment, completely at ease with the predicament.

Is he a secret agent? A spy sent by the Capitol? Her eyes trail up to the top of his head as he takes off his beanie, revealing his lack of hair. It kind of looks like it's been recently polished. Maybe he's a robot?

It's a comfortable thought, if only to let her mind wander when it so desperately wants to. A faint smile traces her lips.

The two of them shake hands, signaling the ending of District 3's reaping. The two newly appointed tributes are immediately escorted inside the building behind them.

Tesla quickly finds herself sitting inside a guest room in silence, her eyes racing along the walls, chairs, table, flowers, pictures and through the windows. She's been all over the district, but never inside the 'guest room'. This place is exclusive to the tributes. The equivalent of an execution waiting room.

She pictures herself being beheaded in a public execution for the entirety of the Capitol's viewing pleasure, her head rolling all the way back home. She shivers at the thought. But only because she can't decide what's worst, her morbid imagery or the fact that it's probably the most accurate of her imaginative daydreams.

It spoils her already sour mood further, so much so, that she's unaware of her cousin entering the room in the middle of a vehement rant.

"-ousands of possible female tributes, the possibility of her being reaped are astronomically low," the lanky teen stops, and stares at his distraught cousin, "Tesla, you're name's only in there 4 times. There's countless other people your age with triple, quadruple the tallies. It's bullshit."

"Improbable, but not impossible," she murmurs, looking and feeling small.

Gear, her cousin may be right, but his explanation doesn't do much to alleviate her sense of hopelessness.

"Where's your parents? I didn't see them on the way here," Gear asks, taking a seat across from her.

Tesla shakes her head from side to side. Her parents won't come. They probably don't even know.

"Why the hell not? They should be here!" Gear billows, raising a hand in protest.

"You said it yourself, statistical probability of being reaped was so low they treated today like any other," Tesla defends, understanding where her parents are coming from.

They were just confident it wouldn't happen. It's always been 18 year old, poverty riddled, tributes who get reaped. That's how the system's built, to prey on the poor. No one expects the 15 year old rich young girl to be reaped. She's usually not even in the picture.

Until now.

"They're not going to come. At all, are they?" Gear asks in resignation, already predicting her answer but desperately hoping for it to be different.

"No. They won't."

Gear visibly deflates, sinking into the lime green couch with an exhausted sigh. The two cousins fall into subdued silence as the ticking from the analog clock sounds throughout the quiet room. The crushing dread is palpable, making the girl breathe shallowly.

She doesn't know what to say. She fruitlessly hopes Gear does.

* * *

_Panem Files #4 - Gamemaker of the Games_

_Name: Helen Levenezque_

_Age: 24_

_Weight: 132lbs. _

_Height: 5'6ft._

_Bio: Helen is the youngest of three children of the Levenezque Family. A rather small family with very fragile and weakened political sway or influence. The only notable member of the family was the first Levenezque. Orpheus Levenezque was a politician who had contributed to President Snow's rise to political power 71 years ago. Beyond this revelation however, the Levenezque's would be completely swept under the rug as just any other wealthy Capitolite family if it weren't for the ambitions and tenacity of the youngest daughter. Helen became a gamemaker at the age of 18, having a tremendous knack for creating grotesque and vicious muttations. Despite this, her talents were heavily overlooked and dismissed. As a result, she's not been considered for Head Gamemaker for the majority of her career, working under 3 different Head Gamemakers before finally being given her opportunity. The 99th Hunger Games marks the first chapter of her prestigious new life, wholly placing the Levenezque Family back on the forefront of everyone's mind. However, the fame proves to be too stiffing for the new Head Gamemaker, as she tends to remain locked up in her labs for weeks on end. She has refused to answer questions about the arena. And has gone to such great lengths that not even her subordinates can't say for certain what the arena actually is, due mostly to the fact that Gamemaker Levenezque has willingly taken the brunt of the work herself. The only conclusion her assistants can come up with is that water, will be preeminent in the arena. Anticipation for the Hunger Games have been at an all time high given the shrouded mystery that the arena has become. _

* * *

**AN: I've taken some liberties with both characters here. That being said, I aimed to keep what makes Magnus and Tesla: Magnus and Tesla! I hope you enjoy! Thank-you so much for submitting these two characters, I look forward to writing more about them! Now, it's the waiting game, I need more submissions! **

**Four tributes reaped, 20 to go! As bad as it may be for pacing, I'll probably squeeze another prologue chapter in her depending on how long it takes to get another pair of tributes. **


	5. District 12 Reapings

_District 12, 9:01AM_

_POV – Mila Carway _

Mila weaves through the crowd sloppily, bumping and tripping into people. They're quick to grumble curses and complaints towards the petite brunette. Not that she notices, her attention far too preoccupied with more pressing matters.

Like the two very angry and pursuing vendors tailing her. She clicks her tongue in frustration as she makes yet another sharp turn, down another part of the market section. She hastens her pace, going from a steady walk to a shuffling jog.

She checks over her shoulder, her long brown hair swaying by the movement, her icy grey eyes land on her pursuers. She curses silently as they take notice of her. She slips down the road and ducks into a narrow alley.

She peers around the corner, looking for the livid shop owners. Not seeing them, she sighs in relief and slumps against the brick wall.

"This is unexpected."

Mila leaps from her seated position and whirls on her heels, turning into the alley. Her gaze traces the walls, and then the end, no more than several feet ahead. A dead end, if she didn't lose the shop owners and they followed her here. Mila gulps nervously, that would have ended poorly.

Still, her thoughts are brushed aside for the obvious out of place man, sitting casually on a thrown-out couch. His legs crossed and attention focused on the novel in hand. Mila's brows narrow, and she marginally bends her knees, preparing to flee.

"Quite the reaction, I can assure you I have no intention of moving," The man says, enunciating every word in a silky smooth tone.

The brunette doesn't budge, her guard firmly in place as she sends a calculating stare towards him. He sighs in response and takes his eyes from the pages to look at her. Unsurprisingly, he has grey eyes just like her. Surprisingly, he's wearing a black vest and white, if not faded and stained dress shirt underneath. He's overdressed for the reaping, Mila concludes, she can't guess as to why.

"What do you want?" She asks cautiously.

"I should be asking you that, you interrupted my reading after all," he counters flippantly, shrugging his shoulder.

Silence falls as they both stare at each other, as if challenging the other to blink first. Mila does and then tears her gaze off the lanky man in favour of inspecting the street ahead.

"Yes. You're right," Mila comments stiffly, leaving the strange man to his springless couch and worn book.

"Was a pleasure," he responds offhandedly to her retreating figure.

* * *

_9:14AM _

_POV – Judah Rockefeller_

Judah watches as the girl dips back onto the street and merges with the crowd, disappearing from sight. She did it so effortlessly too. A practiced talent, one that definitely rivals his own in adeptness. It intrigues him slightly. She's clearly a thief. She probably waltzed into his alley in an attempt to flee her victim.

It's not surprising to see a thief here or there, especially in an impoverish district like 12. On the contrary, they come in a wide abundance. But in that abundance comes a deteriorated standard of quality.

Not to sound pretentious, after all, he was no better at the beginning. He simply had the advantage of being word-savvy. Regardless, he's digressing, the girl is talented, that's plain to see.

Which begs the question, why hasn't he seen her before?

Surely, someone capable of slipping into crowds, dodging pursuers and having that necessary perpetual alertness would have landed on his radar. She's interesting if nothing else. Judah's thoughts then shift back to the novel. Although after the incident, he finds his attention fraying.

Inadvertently thinking back to the stray that waltzed into his alley, she was obviously younger. 2, maybe 3 years? She was positively underfed. Then again, that description befits the majority of 12.

He pulls up his sleeve, revealing a cracked wristwatch, he inspects the time and sighs tiredly. The reaping is about to start. With resignation, the lanky teen lifts himself from the couch, he raises one of the cushions and slips his novel underneath.

He dusts himself and puts on a charming smile as he exits the alley.

By the time he lines up near the city hall, he's panting heavily and a thin line of sweat trails down the side of his chin. He reaches for a handkerchief and whips himself off as he approaches the peacekeeper.

Judah raises a finger, waits for the inevitable sting and bows fictitiously as he makes his way towards the 17 years old section. He waits patiently, a practiced smile plastered on his face as the anthem blares through the speakers.

The anthem soon blurs into a speech, that then is followed by a movie. Judah is hardly paying attention. Frankly, he finds all of the propaganda nonsensical, no one from 12 believes it. The reaping should be nothing more than a 5 minute event. It'll save everyone time, and diminish the growing terror that most of the younger and first time children are currently experiencing.

The movie ends, and Flavia marches to the mic, her heels clicking against the marble floor. She's a new escort, only just replacing Effie last year. Something about the latter being too old to continue, a rather disarming piece of information given how she didn't look a day over 25. Staggering what the Capitol is capable of.

His gaze subconsciously drifts to his chest. He finds himself wondering just what the treatment would have been like if he could have afforded it. No doubt eclipsing the quality of the bastardization that was his surgery. He still suffers from the effects of it today.

"We shall begin with the ladies," Flavia says into the mic.

Judah winces, her Capitolite accent is even heavier than Effie's. The blonde escort marches hastily to the female glass orb, as if not wanting to waste a single second. Despite that, she keeps her hand floating agonizingly above the folded slips, in a morbid attempt at generating suspense. She's succeeding, Judah observes his surroundings, the silence palpable enough to weigh down on him.

Flavia's hand slowly rotates at the wrist, circling around the slips before snatching at one of them, much like a crocodile would it's prey. She zips back to the mic dutifully, not wanting to linger before the bowl.

"Our female tribute for the 99th Annual Hunger Games is…" She pauses, focuses her stare onto the newly unfolded slip before flicking amethyst eyes onto the sea of children, her gaze drifting to the female section.

She licks her lips and a smile blossoms over her face, "Mila Carway! Please make your way to the stage."

There's the usual silence and hesitation that follows, the boys around him are gazing towards the girls in morbid fascination, others no doubt distraught horror. Judah hears the cry of children pierce through the growing murmuring.

Finally, a section of the girls part, giving passage to one of them. Judah recognizes her instantly. But only because he saw her no more than an hour ago.

_Mila Catway- no, Carway?_ He believes that's her name, given the tension that comes with the reaping, he feels like he can be excused for not immediately recalling.

She's the thief, the adept one at that. Her long brown hair, icy grey eyes, petite form, guarded and stoic demeanour, it all matches up. Admittedly, brown hair and grey eyes would probably account for 80% of District 12. Still, it's been hardly an hour, Judah may forget a name when distracted, but never a face when fully attentive.

_A shame,_ he laments internally. She's talented, he believes so at least, and his judgement of character is usually quite accurate.

He watches as the younger girl stiffly walks down the aisle, a pair of peacekeepers stalking closely behind her. Almost as if they're expecting for her to book it at any moment. Judah doubt's she'll attempt to flee, she appears as if the situation isn't fazing her, her face void of emotion.

Of course, appearances can be deceiving to most, and to the rare minority, appearances could have more than it initially seems. To Judah, her stiff walk is riddled with minor tremors, her chest is erratically rising and falling, as if fighting back hysterical breathing.

Sure, she appears emotionless, but the panic is radiating off of her.

He can't blame her, a death sentence isn't something someone can take in stride. No matter how well they pretend to.

"Now, onto the males," Flavia shouts, reigning in his attention.

Her painstakingly slow procedure is truly torturous for the boys around him. Most chew on their inner mouth, others ball their fists, some don't even look, as if not seeing one's condemnation would alleviate the blow behind it.

Judah's the same, he feels his heart pound against his chest, and he feels the lingering aftereffects of his illness flair up. A thin veil of sweat forms at his forehead, and his olive skin turns a slight shade greener.

Flavia finally marches to the microphone and opens her mouth. In return, Judah shuts his eyes and takes a long steadying breath.

"Judah Rockefeller"

He exhales shakily, his eyes opening with a wild glint to them as they struggle to focus on the blonde escort. He internally curses his luck as she starts to wave him forward. There goes his plan to feign ignorance.

_Judah, who's Judah? Certainly not him._

It would have been fruitless, but he still would have preferred to be given the opportunity to try.

He makes his way up to the stage wheezing as he just reaches the stairs. Just another of the aftereffects, and now, a firm reminder of his impeding death. What he would give to at least stop making himself appear so feebly weak for all of the Capitol to see.

A sickly tribute is truly the equivalent of a dead one.

"Your tributes of District 12, and as my predecessor would always say: may the odds be ever in your favor!"

Her cheer isn't reciprocated by the rest of the district. It never is. A relatively young girl and a sickly boy for tributes? Judah snorts despite the terror seizing him. Walking corpses, the both of them.

The two tributes walk towards one another and shake hands. The girl's fingers linger on his hand, he quirks an eyebrow as he studies her. She's doing much the same, her icy stare piercing and calculative, it would have been quite captivating if the icy grey pools weren't lasering into him. Did she recognize him?

Perhaps, but that wouldn't warrant her to maintain contact with him. He's also quite sweaty too, his palms drenched due to the lingering symptoms of his illne- Judah's eyes widen as he abruptly pulls his hand away, ripping it from her slim fingers.

The epiphany strikes him with a severe level of clarity, she's gauging his level of sickness. Trying to decipher just how debilitating the illness is. She's trying to determine his value, his worth, his threat level. He finds himself swallowing thickly. He was hoping to try to form some kind of alliance going into the games, thinking her skills useful enough.

But, her eyes are dangerous. She's dangerous, if he took her into the arena as an ally, he'd be dead before the week.

She's not to be trusted. She doesn't see him as a possible ally, not a genuine one. Just another body in the way of her survival, a tool to be exploited. The impression, it feels much too similar to his own when it comes to conning others out of their goods. As if she's a cat stalking her prey, and waiting for the single moment, the single slip-up to go in for the kill. A sly opportunist. Screw impressions, she's essentially his female counterpart.

She really is an interesting one.

The peacekeepers usher them into separate guest rooms, where Judah waits all for a minute before his parents come rushing in.

"Judah, I'm so sorry," His mother says, instantly swooping him up in a tight hug.

He's taken aback, and raises his eyebrows before returning the hug with gusto, "for what? The reaping you don't possess an ounce of influence over?"

"Judah," She says warningly.

"He's right you know, there's no one to blame in this situation," his father agrees, placing a firm hand on Judah's shoulder.

"No one to blame? For this?" She snaps a bit hotly, to which his father raises his hands in surrender.

"Not you, never you, mom," Judah says, resting his head on top of hers.

"Judah…" she whispers softly, tearing up at the corners of her eyes.

"Blaming the Capitol is pointless too, true, but pointless. Don't say anything that could condemn you too, okay," Judah reprimands gently.

"Don't talk like you're already dead, please," his mother begs softly.

"Just because I'm condemned to this fate, doesn't mean I can't change it. I make my own luck, you know that," He comforts weakly, it would sound so much more impactful if his tone didn't sound so tired.

"You're smart, Judah, cunning too. You can survive this," His father assures.

It falls on deaf ears. Cunning is great and all, sure he could trick people, but unless he can kill them? Well, with the body he has? Smarts and cunning can only take him so far, and his body, even less so.

* * *

_11:01AM _

_POV - Mila Carway _

Mila sits on one of the single seat couches in silence, her hands clamped together as her elbows rest on her knees. She keeps her hands before her mouth, as her eyes furrow in concentration.

The games' are officially on. She has to start planning if she intends to survive. She's quick, nimble with her fingers too. Getting something from the cornucopia and escaping before anyone's the wiser isn't a far fetch for her.

Surviving the bloodbath is the hardest part of most games, it's usually where the Careers are most active, most prominent. All she has to do is evade them, and keep them out of sight after the bloodbath.

She's been in the forest on multiple occasions, for once grateful for the complacency of the peacekeepers and their duties. The fence hasn't been working since forever.

She can collect, build shelter, she's even dabbled with a bit of trapping. If she gets a forest-like arena, her chances of surviving explode. She's not a write off. She knows it.

Her district partner on the other hand, he looks easy enough to get rid of. He seems chronically ill, showing all the signs her mom would. Perhaps not ill to the same extent as the woman in question, but exploitable nevertheless.

Speaking of her family, she looks to the shut doors with a fond smile. Her siblings won't come, they won't even be allowed to. Not old enough to come alone. Matty could, but he needs to go back home to mom. He likely already did. He's the only one now that can take care of her, he knows that. He's always been responsible and mature like that.

Sophy would cry not getting the chance to talk to her, and the twins would no doubt try to cheer her up with false bravado. Despite being undeniably scared for her too.

And then there's little Georgie, he doesn't even know what the reapings mean yet. He'd probably think Mila gets to live in the Capitol if she doesn't return. Undeniably for the best.

She'd completely break down if she had to say goodbye to them after all.

* * *

_Panem Files #5 – The Sponsor System Network_

_Sponsoring was a feature added very shortly after the Game's conception. It's one of the most prominent and well-known aspects of the Games, held to the same familiarity as the informally labelled 'bloodbath', the gamemakers' patented Feast and the arena's demanded expectancy of Muttations. _

_Initially, entry levels to sponsoring was exclusive to the wealthiest and most prestigious families of the Capitol. But, as the games' evolved, so did the leniency to sponsor. Now, just about any citizens has the accessibility to to do so, with the only realistic restriction being the cost of the gifts themselves._

_Even then, most citizens have been granted access to the Sponsoring System Network, or SSN for short. This permits even those who normally would be incapable of affording it, to sponsor their favourite tributes. The means of doing so are simple, the more the citizen views the games, the more they generate Sponsor Coins (SCs), an in-network currency they can use to submit gifts to tributes. Simply, the more engaged a citizen is, the greater chance they have of accumulating SC's to use. _

_The SSN was implemented by President Nova during the 94__th__ Hunger Games and garnered a mixed reaction from the Capitolite people. The consensus was divided, with some disliking how simple the procedure became, losing it's elite prestige. However, others saw the new sponsor system as a better way to involve the entirety of the capitol with the Games. __This stemmed from the sudden increase in accessibility and also by lowering the amount of deaths due to a lack of survivability. These both assisted with making games far more enthralling and combat focused, although it still isn't uncommon for tributes to die due to a lack of shelter or necessities._

_The 99th Games mark the 6th year of the SSN. Additionally, the general consensus has shifted to viewing the SSN as a crucial aspect of the Games, permitting the Capitol newer levels of interaction between the players and their audience. Through this enhanced degree of engagement, the Capitol has reached newer heights of unity, all sharing the same enthusiasm towards the Hunger Games. After all, an entertaining Hunger Games, is a successful one. _

* * *

**AN: Yep, this is the introduction to my a Sponsor System! The ways to generate Sponsor Coins is by: **

_Reviews: 5 coins (criteria for what constitutes a 'review' will be on my profile. But, the gist of things is: no one word reviews, no destructive criticism, no spam, no asking for updating the story. Anything else is acceptable, but the criteria is capable of changing depending on problems that may arise). _

_Follow: 20 coins_

_Fav: 20 coins_

_Submitting a Character: 5 coins_

_Having a Character accepted: 5 coins_

**I'm internally keeping track of all the coins being accumulated by everyone. However, If you are interested in sponsoring, I'd implore you keep track of your coins as well. Any Reviews I received before the introduction of the Sponsor System will be doubled!**

**A catalogue of what gifts can be sponsored will be on my profile too. It'll also be expanding as I add more to it, and get suggestions from you guys, through PM's. **

**Next chapter, will be the final prologue. But after that, It'll be just reapings! District 4 then 1! I'm looking forward to writing both of those. ****Anyways, another Reaping down, 9 more to go! I'm also getting pairs completed too. So I can really start to pump out the chapters! **


	6. Prologue III

_The Capitol, Apollo Studios _

_5:59PM, One week before the Reaping…_

"We're live!" One of the cameraman shouts, angling and zooming his equipment onto the dashing host, Augustus Flickerman.

"Good evening, wonderful citizens of the Capitol! I'm your host, Augustus Flickerman, and this is the Annual Victor's Lounge, where we bring you Panem's most revered celebrities for a quick chat and catch-up!" The man says, excitedly, panning his hand out to the side.

The camera trails pass his hand to the right, quickly coming onto the set, two long red couches are lined up, one behind the other. The furthest back is elevated, as to prevent any of their faces from being obstructed to the camera. The couches are designed to have armrests running down the middle, giving a total of a possible four occupants somewhere to lean their arm. Additionally, each arm rest comes with a cup holder.

Each of his guests wave to the camera expectantly before shifting their focus onto the live audience just behind it.

"Allow me to introduce our splendid guests, starting with our 97th Victor, Hera Kingsley! A icy beauty most at home in combat," Augustus shouts over the roaring applause, outstretching his hand to point towards the brunette woman clad in a majestically long draping yellow dress.

The young woman remains stoically neutral as she waves her hand. It seems her frosty exterior is something the audience is positively devouring as they explode in applause, whistles and cheers. Augustus takes it all in stride with a pearly white smile, he allows the audience to settle down a little before continuing.

"Coral Claeys, the beautiful daughter of Castor Claeys, your 96th Victor and the closest you'll find to a real siren," Augustus introduces impishly, the camera panning onto a petite blonde woman, dressed in a far plainer aqua blue dress.

"A fan favourite for his ingenuity during his games, allow me to introduce you to our very Icarus Nishizawa! Victor of the 95th Games!"

A young man in a tux waves exuberantly with both hands, eating up the attention ravenously, as if the cheers themselves are fueling him. He grins toothily, utterly enjoying the moment.

"You all know her for her unique and undeniably captivating designs, Scarlet Chanel, our 94th Victor!"

A woman with ginger red hair nods her head to the cheers, wearing an odd purple dress with meshing patterns much like a last minute art collage.

"Our 93rd Victor hardly requires an introduction, but in fear of offending her, allow me to introduce Liliana Dromm!" Augustus says, relishing in the joyous laughter that follows.

The victor in question quirks an eyebrow as she smirks, raising a hand in her form of greeting. She's the only female prompting to wear a pant suit instead and has short spiky brown hair.

"Opal Barrineau, The Capitol's Prized Gem and the 92nd Victor!"

A blonde woman garbed in a red shimmering dress that leaves little to the imagination waves her hand tantalizingly. She winks to the crowd, much to their roaring approval.

"And now, as tradition has mandated for the last 14 years, Our 91st Victor, Erik Pineslow will deliver his exit speech," the host says somberly, prompting the crowd to quiet down.

The lights dim with a spotlight flashing towards the far left entrance, a lone tall man walks across the stage to stand before the double couches, where a mic stand begins to rise from the ground.

He taps it twice, testing it before clearing his throat.

"Hello, and welcome to the 14th Annual Victor's Lounge. I first, want to start with just how…. how wonderful these last 7 years have been for me. I've enjoyed every moment and will never forget the undeniable privilege it's been to spend here," The victor pauses, giving the audience plenty of time to clap politely.

Meanwhile, his throat feels constricted and tight. Public speaking has never been a personal favourite of his, and he's quite anxious being infront of a large live audience. The only silver lining is that at the very least it'll be the last time he has to show up on this wretched garbage of a show.

"I've become so close with all of my fellow victors that It'll be difficult to leave,"

_Bullshit, I've been counting the days since Baxton's won his games._

"I'll miss our wonderful time together,"

_I don't even like half of you. You volunteering psychopaths._

"But, much like our great host said, tradition mandates that only the 7 most recent victors participate in this prestigious event. It'll truly be something I'll struggle to cope with. But, firmly knowing that the wonderful people of the Capitol will never forget me, placates my worries."

_Am I laying on the bullshit a bit too thickly?_

Erik turns to look back towards his fellow victors with the best smile he can manage, it looks pained and unbearably strained. He snaps back to stare at the live audience.

_Well, Lily certainly isn't buying into it._

Erik clears his throat once more before continuing "now, I shall pass on the torch!"

_My condolences, new guy._

"I have the wonderful honour of presenting you our 98th Victor, Baxton Fullhouser!"

_Your 7 years of hell, officially start._

Erik points both outstretched hands towards the entrance and bows ceremoniously. The applause that follows is deafening, followed by cheers and whoops of joy. The lights immediately flash on, bringing back the vibrant colours of the stage as the tall burly man from 10 comes walking in. The white suit he wears seems to want to burst at the seams as they try to contain his massive arms.

The audience's attention is entirely focused on their new victor, giving Erik amble time to slip off to the right and exit the stage, the Capitol audience none the wiser.

"Baxton, a true pleasure, and must I add, you look truly splendid in that suit," Augustus says, standing from his lone seat and outstretching his hand.

The burly victor flinches slightly but masks it with a sheepish grin and shakes the host's hand.

"Thank-you, you look ravishing yourself."

"Oh, stop you," The host says comically, feigning embarrassment as he ushers Baxton to the front couch.

"Now, with all 7 of you finally here, I first must start with you, Opal," The man pauses, giving the Victor time to reign in her seductions to pay attention, "This will be your last Victor's Lounge with us," This time, Augustus is forced to pause as he hears the whines and jeers from the audience, he continues undeterred, "might I ask what your thoughts are like knowing this?"

"Much like Erik's: genuine devastation, I adore it here," She answers smoothly, her tone steady and slow.

The audience cheers, "I see, we'll just have to make this one the most memorable then," Augustus responds with a charming smile.

"Couldn't agree more," Opal replies perfectly, her focus again shifting towards the audience.

"Icarus, Coral, this will be your first Victor's Lounge where you are of age to drink, tell me, what beverages do you have there?" The host asks knowingly.

Coral flinches, and looks sheepish, but Icarus grins instead, "I just figured wine or champagne would be a good start, but couldn't decide so I just got both," the raven haired victor says through a toothy smile.

"Should we tell him?" Augustus asks, shifting his focus to the audience.

Predictably, laughter follows.

"Coral, my dear? What did you decide on?"

"I… uhm, well, I decided to have some bourbon," She replies quietly, willing that the answer would placate Augustus and the audience.

"Oh? Why bourbon? Doesn't seem like something we'd think you'd drink, right folks?" The host asks, gesturing his follow question to the audience.

They voice their confused agreement, prompting Coral to sigh, "It's my dad's favourite drink so… I just figured I'd like to… try… it," She shrinks into herself, her face and ears burning red as her own statement finally sinks in.

It didn't sound nearly as humiliating in her mind.

"Hahah, daddy's little girl," Icarus laughs rambunctiously.

Coral bristles, but deigns from commenting and instead takes a gulp of her drink. When she fails to react, the crowd stares on in abject shock.

"My, Coral, this wasn't your first drink?"

"Nope, I've drank before, I didn't turn 18 today after all," She explains, smiling sweetly to soften the sting of her words.

Not that Augustus takes offence, he laughs in response.

"Haha, daddy's little girl isn't so little after all," The raven-haired victor comments through his laughter.

"Shut the hell up Icarus," Coral seethes.

"Ahem, Scarlet, tell me more about your new line of clothing?" Augustus smoothly redirects the audience's attention to the redhead.

The young woman nods, "For my new line, I decided to go for the theme: 'Across Panem'. Each dress will feature the essence that makes each district, that district. And then finally, I'll have multiple designs for the Capitol as well. The line comes out this summer, I hope you all look forward to it," she finishes with a smile.

"My, I'm just salivating at the thought, this summer couldn't be further," Augustus comments, to the concurring agreement of the crowd.

"I have a fashion show lined up this spring, make sure to get tickets if you want a chance to see them before they hit the markets," Scarlet continues courteously.

"Something I've no doubt the majority of us will make sure to do," The host acknowledges, "Hera, I've been meaning to ask, but what was your first year as a mentor like?"

"Unsuccessful," The woman says curtly.

Baxton, who had the misfortune of sitting beside the woman awkwardly edges away from her, the tension tangible enough he feels as if he's suffocating under it.

"But even in failure, one can learn something no? Anything you intend to change or alter going into the 99th Hunger Games?"

"I can't disclose that with other mentors here," Hera responds tonelessly, her eyes wandering to the Victors in question.

Coral narrows her eyes, Icarus winks as he grins toothily, Baxton pointedly refuses to make eye contact, Scarlet nods in approval and Opal pretends to appear far too distracted with the live audience to be paying attention.

"Ah, yes, the winning mentality you're famously known for, I apologize if I offended you my dear," The host apologizes.

"It's fine."

"Moving away from mentors," Augustus pauses and shifts on his seat to face the spiky haired Victor, "Liliana, If I may be so bold, last year you said you were going to start your very own beauty salon. Us in the Capitol are dying to know just how much it's come along,"

Liliana sways her head in response, raising a hand and teetering it from side to side, "It could be better, a bit shaky."

"Oh, why is that?"

"We're a new business. I'd imagine it'll take time before we gain the trust of our customers," Liliana explains with a shrug.

"Ah yes, the fickle nature of consumers, knowing your tenacity, success is but around the corner."

"Har, I hope so, I'd hate to go under in just a pair of years," The woman laughs, slapping her knee in agreement.

"Ah, but if it's finances you lack-"

"Nah, no way, I'm not going to take any more money than the minimum to get my company going," Liliana interrupts, steadfastly nodding her head in disagreement.

"Ah yes, that's right, you like to donate a lot of your annual income to your district no?"

"Exactly, this is just a side project to me. I'd hate for it to fail, but I'm not going to jeopardize my priorities for it," the Victor explains, nodding her head in self-satisfaction

"A noble mindset."

"Or a stubborn one," Icarus stage-whispers loudly, leaning into Coral's ear.

"Holy hell, why me?" she bemoans, massaging her temples tiredly.

"Well duh, who else could I even whisper to?" Icarus answers mischievously, emphasizing his answer by patting the edge of the couch to his left side.

She twitches and goes in for another long gulp of her drink. This prompts the raven haired teen to grin mischievously as he mirrors her enthusiasm by taking a drink of his own.

"So, Baxton, it's customary for the first question addressed to you to revolve around the Victor's Tour. Which district was your favourite? Bar your own." Augustus asks, appearing oblivious to the side discussion.

"Oh, uh… I'm sorry, could you repeat that again?" Baxton stammers, far too preoccupied with not freezing by Hera's demeanour.

"Not a problem, I was hoping you could let me know which district was your favourite during the Victor's Tour? With the exception of your own, naturally," The man repeats, smiling charmingly.

"Ah… Okay, that's tough, they were all very… nice?" He finishes lamely.

Augustus laughs, along with the rest of the live audience, "My, no need to be so political, you can answer freely here."

"I guess, I liked District 1. It's so urban compared to home," Baxton compromises.

"Indeed it is, but it's urbanization is hardly it's greatest point" Opal comments offhandedly, rounding her attention back onto the audience.

"Ah yes, our resident District 1 mentor, Opal, what would you consider District 1's greatest point be?"

"It goes without saying, our models," Opal says sagely, gesturing to herself as she dips her head.

The audience roars their approval, much to Coral and Liliana dismay as they roll their eyes. On the other hand, Scarlet nods her head profoundly, not able to disagree with the point. Baxton smiles weakly, although it's unmistakably a cringe as he takes the chance to loosen his tie.

"My, I don't believe I can dispute that statement, can you Baxton?" Augustus asks.

"Ga-huh? Uh, yeah- I mean, you're right. Models, of course," The giant man stutters.

"Jests aside-"

_That was a jest? _Baxton thinks weakly.

"Our architecture stands superior to the other districts, reflecting much of the wonderful Capitol itself. Emulation of course, we could never rival the true majesty of the Capitol after all," Opal responds seriously.

The audience eats it up.

"You couldn't have said it better my dear, with that, I think we're ready to take a small break," Augustus turns his head to face the camera, "don't go anywhere, up next we'll clear all the gossip involving our victors, get an in-depth run down of the last few months of their lives and most importantly, their anticipations and expectations for the 99th Hunger Games. All here, on the 14th Annual Victor's Lounge."

The audio from the mics are cut off as music starts to play. Augustus maintains his smile for a second longer before turning to face the victors again, laughing at something Icarus says. The camera pans out before surfing over the cheering audience.

Then, commercials play.

* * *

_Panem Files #6 – The Victors _

_Here consists a list of the last 25 Victors of the Hunger Games. Their first and last name are present, along with the age they were once they won, their corresponding district, gender and amount of kills they accumulated throughout the duration of their respective Games. Beneath the aforementioned list is a tally of Victors per district. _

_The Victors__  
__74__th__ Hunger Games: Thresh Harveston (18) D11M - 4 kills_

_75__th__ Quarter Quell: Primrose Everdeen (13) D12F - 2 kills_

_76__th__ Hunger Games: Castor Claeys (18) D04M - 5 kills_

_77__th__ Hunger Games: Lectro Watts (17) D03M - 3 kills_

_78__th__ Hunger Games: Saffron Griffins (17) D01M - 6 kills_

_79__th__ Hunger Games: Portia Andrzejewski (18) D02F - 6 kills_

_80__th__ Hunger Games: Gaius Culligan (18) D02M - 5 kills_

_81__st__ Hunger Games: Circe Rotterdam (16) D06F - 3 kills_

_82__nd__ Hunger Games: Alistar Yuri (18) D02M - 6 kills_

_83__rd__ Hunger Games: Candace Evans-Lang (18) D05F - 5 kills_

_84__th__ Hunger Games: Garnet Easton (17) D01F - 5 kills_

_85__th__ Hunger Games: Willow Graskin (16) D07F - 3 kills_

_86__th__ Hunger Games: Kevlar Schiaparelli (17) D08M - 3 kills_

_87__th__ Hunger Games: Florian Muller (18) D04M - 6 kills_

_88__th__ Hunger Games: Paulina Nunez Garcia (14) D10F - 1 kill_

_89__th__ Hunger Games: Spartacus Sorensen (18) D02M - 11 kills_

_90__th__ Hunger Games: Jasper Solace (18) D01M - 3 kills_

_91__st__ Hunger Games: Erik Pineslow (17) D07M - 3 kills_

_92__nd__ Hunger Games: Opal Barrineau (18) D01F - 2 kills_

_93__rd__ Hunger Games: Liliana Dromm (17) D02F - 6 kills_

_94__th__ Hunger Games: Scarlet Chanel (17) D08F - 3 kills_

_95__th__ Hunger Games: Icarus Nishizawa (15) D06M - 4 kills_

_96__th__ Hunger Games: Coral Claeys (16) D04F - 5 kills_

_97__th__ Hunger Games: Hera Kingsley (18) D02F - 7 kills_

_98__th__ Hunger Games: Baxton Fullhouser (18) D10M - 4 kills_

_99__th__ Hunger Games: TBD…_

_Victors per district in the last 25 years._

_District 1: 4__  
__District __2: 6__  
__District __3: 1__  
__District __4: 3__  
__District __5: 1__  
__District __6: 2__  
__District __7: 2__  
__District __8: 2__  
__District __9: 0__  
__District __10: 2__  
__District __11: 1__  
__District __12: 1_

* * *

**AN: Whew. Honestly, I squeezed in this prologue mostly because I wanted to get this Panem File out of the way. But this prologue itself ended up being just as helpful, since it introduces some of the mentors and previous victors. It'll make reapings for Career districts considerably easier too. All for the narrative. Anyways, if you're a new reader, I need a few more submissions, so don't shy away! If you already have a character accepted, I won't mind receiving submissions either. Just know that I'm trying to get in as many different submitters as I can. **

**Onto a question! Were you able to guess where each respective victor hailed from before seeing the Panem file? And, which mentor gave you the best first impression? The worst? **

**See you all soon in District 4! **


	7. District 4 Reapings

_District 4, Atlantis Academy _

_6:12PM, 3 day before the reaping…_

A man sits at a large mahogany desk, multiple files scattered across its surface. The blond man has two files open in hand, his eyes constantly glancing between the two. He finally sighs and drops the files unceremoniously to the desk.

He massages his temple and fetches into a drawer, grabbing a bottle of bourbon. He leans back on his chair and reaches behind him for a glass shot. He expertly pours himself a drink and chugs it back, enjoying the pleasurable sting that follows.

He starts to organize the mess he made when he suddenly hears knocking coming from the door.

"Enter," he responds, going back to the duty of rearranging the files, going the extra mile to alphabetize them.

The door opens and a bearded man enters, his eyes instantly fall onto the shot glass and a mischievous smirk plasters on his face, "little early for drinking, don't you think, headmaster?"

The man glares, but there isn't any bite to it, he shakes his head tiredly before answering, "not now, as you can see, I'm a bit preoccupied," the man says, gesturing to the messy desk.

"Looking through the candidates?"

"Unfortunately," the headmaster sighs.

"Surely it can't be that bad," the bearded man says, trying to lighten the mood.

"None of them even passed our standardized test."

There's a still silence, it lasts for all of a single second before hands slam onto the desk with an audible clap.

"And who's fault is that?!" The man snaps, his jovial expression evaporating instantaneously as he scowls deeply.

"Watch your tone, Flo. I'm not sending in unready tributes, it's suicide," the headmaster responds dispassionately.

"How many?" Flo asks icily.

"I'm not going to indulge you a battle of rhetoric, get to the point," The headmaster says, folding his arms across his chest.

"How many 18's, how many have you denied the chance?"

There's a pause, as the headmaster's mouth thins into a pencil frown, "…15."

"Are you out of your damn mind? Do you even realize the kind of backla-"

"I'm well aware, thank-you. They'd die if we send them in. For that matter, this academy will no longer only send a single tribute. It's pairs or none at all," the headmaster interrupts, his tone steadying into a deceptive calm.

Flo narrows his eyes dangerously, his hands twitching before balling into fists. The headmaster remains unflinching, his hands still firmly crossed. They stare into one another eyes' challenging the other.

"Really? I'm gone for half a week and the two of you are already back at each other's throats?" A voice calls out from the doorway.

Both males opt to face the newcomer, unsurprised to see Coral leaning against the frame with a unimpressed expression washing over her features. The silence between the three stretches on awkwardly.

Flo coughs, "you're early."

"Yeah, your welcome," She says unkindly.

The bearded man sighs, deflating as he pushes himself up from the desk, "you'll see what all the shouting is about soon enough," he says tiredly as he makes his way out of the office.

"Where the hell do you think you're going?" Coral asks frigidly.

"Home. I need to destress and prepare for tomorrow," Flo says, scooting around the petite girl and marching down the hall.

Coral watches him retreat before turning her gaze onto the older looking man, the headmaster, Castor Claeys, her dad. Even in his 40's, he still looks remarkably fit and healthy. A by product of winning the games, but more importantly a by product from training here, in this academy.

"So, what _was_ all the shouting about?" She asks, dropping into a chair and making herself at home.

"You're early…" The man sighs.

"So I've been made aware," she responds rigidly, her face twitching in anger.

"District 4 will not have any volunteers this year."

"What!?" She demands, straightening her posture to meet his eyes clearly.

The shock in her's is prominent, but it quickly shifts to confusion before deciding on anger, "Cassie's ready, she can wi-"

"This has nothing to do with her… or you for the matter," Castor interrupts, then gently adds on after seeing Coral's recoiling features.

"I… fine…" the mentor concedes, bowing her head.

Coral's resigned look unfortunately triggers his parental instincts, and Castor finds himself explaining his decision to his daughter, "Cassandra still has two more years, and I'm not going to send her into the arena to fend for herself."

Coral tilts her head in confusion, prompting for Castor to continue, "Like I told Florian, district 4 will only send in pairs of tributes from now on."

"What brought this on?" Coral asks, perking at the proclamation with interest.

"Without a reliable ally, our volunteers lack the assurance, the assistance necessary to compete with those from 1 or 2. We've lost too many fine volunteers due to this. Luka is a perfect example."

Coral frowns. Luka, the sole volunteer from last year. His district partner wasn't a bloodbath, but not good enough to join the career alliance. Anastasia was simply too young. Her death on the first day, was unfortunately to be expected, and didn't surprise Coral one bit. But, thinking about the sole volunteer leaves a foul taste in her mouth, especially given who killed him.

After all, she sat two seats away from the man responsible.

"So, you think she's ready? Just that the males' are slacking?"

"Coral, she's 16," The headmaster pleads tiredly.

"I get that! But do you even realize how awkward dinner's going to be if we don't explain it properly to her?"

"She's… capable," He compromises lamely.

"Capable," She repeats in deadpan.

"Capable… which is more than any of the possible 18's we have for the female section."

"Ah, yes… well I tested them with your addition to survival theory and upped the tempo in combat. It was too high a curve for most."

"Most? Try all."

"What will you say during reaping day? You know they won't like this."

"I'll be honest, brutally so."

"Definitely won't like this…" She murmurs worriedly.

"They'll learn to deal with it," Castor dismisses easily, standing from his seat.

"I guess," she says lamely, talking to only fill the space more than anything else, looking distracted.

"So… bourbon, hmm?"

Coral pales considerably, her eyes bugging at the mischievous smile her dad's wearing.

"Oh god… you watched that!?"

"Of course, every single minute."

Coral covers her face with open palms, mollified by the statement. She mentally runs through the 3 hour show, going over every question she answered. Naturally, she was asked the obligatory relationship status question. She for the 3rd time had to exasperatedly explain how she is in fact, not seeing Icarus of all fucking people. It's infuriating as well as equal parts mortifying just thinking about it. Which, her dad conveniently brought up, knowing her predictable reaction. She peeks from between parted fingers and sees Castor laugh animatedly.

"…bastard," She whispers, only prompting the laughter to increase.

* * *

_5:48AM, Day of the Reaping…. _

_POV – Cyrus Waterlily _

The boat subtly teeters in the gentle waves, a swaying motion that Cyrus has come to love throughout her years out in the ocean. Of course, not to the grand extend where she can't see land, but far enough where the peace and tranquility that comes with a calm sea can set one person into a state of bliss.

"Cy, when I said I'd do anything when you needed help, fishing at 5 wasn't exactly what came to mind," a voice says exasperatedly from across the small boat.

Cyrus' peels her eyes off from the reflective surface to look at her friend, a kind smile on her face, "yeah? And what did come to mind?"

He flinches, and instinctively rubs the back of his neck. He can't quite look at her smile, and especially not her ocean green blue eyes. The way they crinkle in excitement and joy is simply far too captivating for him. Naturally, she's none the wiser to his crazily thumping heart.

"Um, n-nothing really. Let's just get the net ready."

"Good idea, lend me a hand?" Her eyes shine with excitement as they stare at him.

"Why I'm here, right?"

She giggles in response and fetches the meshed netting. Her friend, Trenton stands from his seated position and quickly helps her hurl the net overboard, splashing into the water. Trenton rubs his hands together in satisfaction before slumping back down to his corner of the small boat.

"So, now what, we wait?"

"And here I was thinking we should just go snorkeling, " Cyrus comments offhandedly.

"Wait, what!? The water's probably freezing, the sun's not out an- oh," Trenton pauses mid rant, seeing the deadpan expression on his friend's face.

"I mean, ha ha. You're such a comic," he says, although it lacks any real sting to it.

Cyrus laughs, which prompts him to in return. Their joyous mood is hastily interrupted as they hear a low whistle-like hum pierce through the silence. Trenton starts to panic, surveying his surroundings with rapt attention, whereas Cyrus quickly turns to face the sky, already knowing what the sound is, and represented.

7 hovercrafts glide across the sky, all but nearly masked in the early morning darkness. In an arrow formation, they venture away from land, and deeper into the ocean.

"W-what the hell are those for!?"

Cyrus doesn't respond, her eyes transfixed on the flying vehicles up until they're mere specks in the distance. She's noticed them a few weeks ago. Once she did, however she simply could no longer ignore them. Capitol hovercrafts, flying to who knows where, it's been consistent and non-stop.

"Cy? Hey, you saw those right?"

"Even if I didn't, I'd definitely hear them," She says, turning to smile at him.

It puts him at ease, "What's even out there besides the ocean?"

Cyrus follows his gaze, and stares into the vast body of water. 'Probably nothing', she'd say. Nothing natural at least. For anything to warrant the Capitol's resources and attention, it can't bode well for the districts.

"Who knows, hey, looks like the sun's coming up," Cyrus says, pointing with an outstretched finger

Trenton's eyes trace across her bare tanned arm, down to her finger before peeling off towards the rising sun. It's radiance bleeds off of the mountain tops and showers down onto the ocean, painting it in a vibrant mixture of oranges, reds and yellows.

"Isn't it gorgeous?" Cyrus asks.

"Yeah, I'll give you that," he answers mutely, mesmerized at the transformation.

"Gorgeous enough to come again?" She probes, leaning in as she awaits a response.

"Uh, well it'll take more than that to convince me really," Trenton says uneasily, already picking up on Cyrus' ulterior motive.

"Oh? I'm pretty convincing when I want to be," she says playfully.

"Aah, ha.. ha. Uhm, r-right. I mean, yeah, I don't doubt it. Very persuasive friend."

"You okay?" Cyrus asks, her brows scrunched in confusion as she watches her friend scan the ocean.

"Never better!" He answers quickly, his eyes panicked.

_Of course he is, _she thinks, her smile leaving in favour of a deadpan stare.

"So, how about that fishing, huh?" Trenton comments, going to the side of the boat in favour of inspecting the fishing net.

Cyrus continues to stare at her friend with a puzzled expression before shrugging and deciding to indulge his request.

* * *

_POV – Calder Lynch _

_8:09AM _

Calder huffs as he hauls a box of packed fish onto the dock. He wipes his sleeve against his forehead and pants heavily. It's exhausting work and his muscles are already protesting against doing any more.

Yet, the ginger haired teen persists. The money he can make here could go to Maurea and her education, that alone is plenty motivation to continue. He rises from his slouched position and goes back up the aisle onto the ship. It's a massive fishing ship, extending 50 feet from end to end.

At the center of the ship, there's a group of workers hastily dividing the fish and placing them in containers. Some form of technology that 3 developed to preserve the freshness of the fish, not that Calder really understands the specifics. All he knows is that he needs to bring the containers down onto the dock where they'll be put into transports that'll go straight to the Capitol.

It's a good job, pays well too. The orange haired teen was ecstatic when he landed it. The only true downfall to his job would be all of the other people working around him. He didn't trust them. Although perhaps that assessment is unfair, he simply didn't trust anyone.

How could you? Half the kids he knows train to kill, and the other half revere them like gods. The notion sickens Calder, but also frightens him. In a world like this, isolation is the best course of action.

He grits his teeth as he plops another large box by the others. He's just about to make his way up to the ship again when he notices a dinghy of sorts dock. Two teens, maybe his age skip off their ship without a care in the world, laughing as they chat with one another.

Calder's grey eyes narrow and he instinctively finds himself pulling away from the pair.

"You woke me up at 5 for a haul like this?" The boy says, lifting up a small bucket as if emphasizing his point.

He gets playfully swatted at as the girl giggles, the two continue their trivial conversation, Calder no long paying it any attention. The pair leave the dock, and Calder's just about to make his way back onto the ship when he bumps into someone.

He's mouth falls into a frown, but he ultimately turns to face the other person. Said frown morphs into a grimace as he notices the size of his burly coworker, the grizzled man looks at him with an unimpressed expression.

"Well?"

"Well what?"

"Apologize shitbag,"

The grimace becomes a frown again as he stares at his alleged 'peer' with a bored expression, "You're joking."

"I'm not, learn to respect your superiors."

"I've yet to see one."

"You litt-"

He didn't finish his sentence, Calder already swinging a fist towards him. The burly man can only blink as the fist connects with his jaw. Spittle explodes from his mouth as he slumps to the ground like a ragdoll, out like a light.

Calder hisses as he gingerly shakes his hand. The connection was a bit too crisp, he's feeling the blood rush to his knuckles. Still, he can't let this slow him down from carrying the boxes. He sighs tiredly before going back up to the ship, acting as if he didn't just knock a man twice his weight out.

He quickly becomes aware of his fellow coworkers who immediately shuffle out of his path, giving him easy access up the ramp. He remains stoic, although the sharpness in his eyes deter others from approaching.

This avoidance is precisely the kind of thing he wants, he collects a container and parts his employers with his presence alone. He goes back to the dock where the unconscious coworker remains. He spares the man a moment's glance before walking over the man and dropping the box down among the others.

* * *

_POV – Cyrus Waterlily_

_10:54AM _

Cyrus' ash brown hair falls in beach waves, not seeing any reason to style it for the reaping. Besides, given its volume and length, it's already quite respectable and pretty. At least, she likes to think so at least.

The rest of her ensemble is linen pants and a white sleeveless blouse her mom convinced her to wear. Not that it took particularly a lot to begin with, Cyrus finally stops inspecting herself and walks down to the main floor. Her mom's already waiting by the door, a smile on her face.

"Shall we go?" She says.

"Of course mom, I'm all ready."

Cyrus links her arm with her mom's and escorts her down to the main square. Along the way, Trenton joins them, dressing plainly with a button up and dress pants. He looks a bit uncomfortable, something Cyrus is quick to tease him about.

The two teens walk Cyrus' mom to one of the areas outside the main square and make their way back towards the peacekeepers.

Trenton goes through the procedures first, getting his finger prickled and ushered through the entrance, he waits for Cyrus to go through before the two make their way to the front of the plaza, towards the 18-year-old section.

"Wanna get some food after this?" Trenton asks casually.

"I could go for some, yeah. Thanks for asking me out," Cyrus answers with a smile.

Trenton chokes on something but manages to wave her off. Cyrus returns said wave, albeit a bit hesitantly, confusion lacing her facial expressions.

_That was abrupt. _She thought, tilting her head to the side.

The anthem blares, causing Cyrus to look forward. The next 40 minutes or so go by at an agonizing snail pace. Almost as if the mayor is slurring his words simply to prolong them. In her boredom, Cyrus casts glances towards Trenton, trying to see how he's putting up with this. Thankfully, it'll be their last one, then they don't need to actually show up anymore. Plus, with schooling finishing shortly, Cyrus will have unrestricted access to fishing, and she can put her dad's business at the forefront of her priorities.

It makes her smile and she once again shift her head towards her friend. She finds that he's returning the glance. That's the fourth time in a row too. He must have a sixth sense for picking up on it. She beams at him, prompting for Trenton to look forward.

The mayor clears his throat at the mic and bows, and Cyrus turns back to the front. The reaping is ending, much to her relief. She watches as the mayor steps back to align himself along the two mentors and escort. Cyrus scrunches her brows as she tries to recall their names. Coral Claeys and Erasmus Alma are the easiest to remember, as Coral won three years ago, give or take. And Erasmus has been the escort for district 4 since Cyrus was 3, he also has a habit of always starting reapings by-

"Welcome ladies and gentlemen, I am your escort, Erasmus Alma and I'm simply ecstatic to commence the reaping!" The man exclaims into the mic.

-introducing himself. Always starts reapings by introducing himself. The male mentor rolls his eyes at the introduction, no doubt fed up by it. Cyrus stifles her giggles; he probably should introduce himself too. Maybe that way she'd remember his name just as easily.

Erasmus practically skips to the female section, and goes through the actions of massaging his hands for a few seconds before plunging one of them into the bowl of slips. Cyrus watches on in slight disinterest and the escort eventually comes back up with a slip in hand and a grin on his face.

He waltz to the mic this time and clears his throat rather theatrically.

"The female tribute for our 99th Hunger Games is the lovely, Cyrus Waterlily!"

The girl is question can't help but have her eyebrows raise in startled shock, her mouth slightly parting at the proclamation. She got picked? Hher going into the Hunger Games is a foreign notion, something she never once entertained. It's a bit odd, she remains standing in place, waiting for any volunteers. Erasmus has the same idea as although he did call out for her name, he hasn't tried to call her up onto the stage.

And yet, Cyrus is met with complete silence from the girls around her. Cyrus ducks forward a bit, looking down the row of girls her age. She sees a few of the academy trainees, and yet, they're remaining begrudgingly in place.

She can tell that much given how hard they're clenching their fists and gritting their teeth, looking positively unladylike. Yet, they're not moving a single muscle. It befuddles Cyrus to no ends, but in all of her confusion, at least one thing remains painfully clear.

She's going to be a tribute in the games.

* * *

_POV – Calder Lynch_

_11:48AM_

Calder watches as a petite girl walks up to the stage. She's pretty, he admits, and looks physically able too. She also carries a level of confidence about her that he'd half expect from one of the psychopaths from the academy. Overall, not the worst person to be reaped. The young girl from last year lacked any of the qualities this 'Cyrus' has.

She stands a decent chance in his opinion. That being said, Calder's attention ends up focusing on her name. After all, Cyrus? Did her parents want a boy? Seems a bit cruel, maybe she's tomboyish too? Her name's probably not going to do her any favours in the Capitol, honestly, he wouldn't put it past them to just change her name or address her differently.

Calder refocuses back onto their escort, Erasmus. The thin man has neon orange hair with blue specks in it. It looks utterly ridiculous. Calder can't help but feel like he's being mocked by the unnatural colour, his hand going up to his own ginger locks.

The escort finally picks a slip from the male section and shimmies to the mic. A sight the boy is wishing he could forget, why are all the escorts eccentric? They've been like this for years; it's humiliating just looking at them.

"The male tribute for the 99th Hunger Games is the wonderful, Calder Lynch!" The man exclaims, using a near identical phrase he used for the girls.

Calder watches on in disinterest. He won't deny his heart jumped a bit at his name, but logical thinking won out. If a girl got reaped, then the odds of a male volunteering exponentially increases. After all, even though 4 is inconsistent with its career tributes, they rarely go without sending in at least one annually. Calder can't even recall the last time two tributes got reaped.

It's with these thoughts in mind that he remains firmly in place, waiting expectantly for the glory seeking psychopath of the year to step in. After multiple seconds, his heart plummets.

No one's stepping forward. They're suppose to step forward at this time. No one actually waits for the escort to ask for volunteers, the idiots at the academy are taught to stand out. This, volunteering out of turn is the way to stand out! So much so that out of turn, became the norm.

It's pretty telling that no one will volunteer when Calder's awkwardly asked to come to stage, the escort looking overwhelmed by the turn of events. He probably never got double reaped tributes before.

It makes Calder scowl deeply at the thought. He brushes past the advancing peacekeepers and makes his way to the stage with a vicious glare, daring someone to get in his way. He's built up a reputation, he's going to see it through to the end to the best of his capabilities.

Even so, when on stage, he can't stop himself from involuntarily fidgeting. Just the thought of having so many eyes on him, peering at him, looking at him. It's a bit nerve-wracking. But actually being here and seeing all of the eyes glued to him and his district partner, well, his nerves are at their end's wit.

"Uh… uhm, w-well-" Erasmus is abruptly cut off by Coral ripping the mic out of his hand.

"Your tributes for district 4, a loud applause for them If you could be so kind," Coral says, bowing slightly.

The applause that follows is loud and dare he think, hopeful. It makes Calder glower as his scowl deepens. Great, they actually have some expectations for him, despite being a reaped tribute to boot. He can't catch a break it seems.

During the applause, Erasmus' balance nearly escapes him, he's teetering on his heels, looking dazed and swamped, his vision swimming and sweat trickling down his forehead. He didn't protest at all when Coral essentially took his job from him.

At the very least, that makes Calder smirk. No way in hell is this guy keeping his job after a blunder like that. After all, escorts are liaisons between the Capitol and the district tributes. Being a fool when you represent the Capitol implies, they're equally as foolish to hire him.

The smirk vanishes from his face the moment he spots a smooth tanned hand poke into his vision. He looks up to his district partner, she's chewing on her lip, as she expectantly waits. Her blueish green eyes remind him of the ocean, fitting given their district. She also has a hoop nose piercing, something that draws his attention simply for its golden colour, the sun reflects off it, giving it a glossy look. His eyes then fall back down to the hand, as he notices it's been pushed even closer to his chest.

His eyes narrow, and he's about to tell her off when he remembers that it's tradition to shake hands. So, begrudgingly he ends up grabbing hold of hers. He gives it a quick firm shake before letting go, refusing to make eye-contact with the girl, agitated by the fact that he found her hand to be comfortably smooth and soft.

Calder's quite grateful for the peacekeepers as they come to escort him to the waiting rooms. He takes a seat at one of the aquamarine couches and waits for his family. It doesn't take long for them to arrive, all with grave faces of varying degrees of concern.

"Outrageous! It's just outrageous, how could district 4 not have a single volunteer for this year, they had at least one last year!" his father shouts, waving his hands out in anger.

"Dear settle down please," His mother chides him gently, she turns to face Calder with a soft smile on her face, "Calder, you're a fighter, heaven's knows we know that."

Calder's grey eyes flick to his sister and father, who both are vigorously nodding their head in agreement, it prompts a exasperated sigh from him.

"You're cautious too, good. Don't trust anyone," His mom continues.

Calder nods his head to that, agreeing with the sentiment wholeheartedly.

"You still need an alliance though!" Maurea proclaims, raising her finger to waggle, giving off the impression of a teacher in the middle of an important lecture.

Calder quirks an eyebrow, "Why's that? It's a free for all death match."

He immediately regrets his bluntness, seeing how his sentence made his little sister flinch, she hesitates for a second before shaking her head, "allies can help you stay alive longer."

"Or kill you in your sleep," Calder counters.

"You need to talk to people, you need to-"

"It's not going to matter much now," He says offhandedly.

"… please, you need allies out there," she mumbles weakly.

Calder winces at her fragile tone and looks up to her from his seated position. Her face is at contrast with itself, her mouth falling into a frown, yet her eyes misty. Her frustration is palpable, and it's more than enough to get Calder up from his seat and embracing her in a tight hug.

"Fine, fine. I'll do what I can," he whispers to her.

"The girl, Cyrus, she's trustworthy. Be her ally."

"Uh…" Calder winces, it's one thing to promise someone, a whole other to actually act out said promise.

"Okay, I'll… I'll do- try it, I'll try it," Calder eventually says.

His sister looks up to him with a frown but decides that's probably the most she'll get from him. A compromise.

"Good enough," she says.

"Come here Cal," his father says, his arms wide, "we're going to group hug it out,"

"I think I'll pass dear," his mom insists.

"No way, we're group hugging," his father persists, grabbing his wife's wrist and dragging her towards the children.

Calder smiles ruefully, being embraced by the entirety of his family. The moment is tender, and he finds himself incredibly motivated to get out of the Games alive.

For them, he's willing to do whatever it takes to get home.

* * *

_POV – Cyrus Waterlily_

_12:09PM _

Cyrus waves goodbye to her last brother and mom with a smile on her face. He, like the three others came to wish her luck and to send her off. They came in separately because they came with their families, knowing that Cyrus would absolutely adore their children.

Heck, she wouldn't deny that during most of the visitation she spent with kids on her lap and paying them more attention than anyone else. She really couldn't help it. Kids are simply adorable, her weakness, if you could call it that.

Cyrus sits back down satisfied in meeting with her family. She sits back down, her back to the door. It's why she's puzzled when she hears it open again, who's visiting her now? She's seen everyone already, hasn't she?

There was Zeus and Roman, her two oldest brothers, but most importantly have a daughter a piece. Then, there was Brutus, who has two wonderful boys, one even shares the same name as her! Then there was Percy, who just left, with her cute niece, Amethyst in tow. Her mom came in with Percy too.

So wh-

"Oh, hey Trenton, what's up?" Cyrus says, finally turning to face the door.

The boy in question looks distraught by the turn of events, "How are you this blasé?"

"It could be far worst," she says, shrugging, already knowing what he's implying with his question.

Trenton looks flabbergasted by the claim, "How exactly?" he questions exasperatedly.

"Could have been a 12 year old."

"I… I guess? I mean, do you think you can win?"

"Of course, I do! Are you trying to write me off?" She asks, placing her hands on her hips with an unimpressed look on her face, it's fictitious, but, Trenton seems to buy into it.

"Wha- no! It's just, how are you this calm!?"

"You asked that already, just with a different word," Cyrus points out in deadpan.

"I'll ask with how many different words I need to until I get a real answer," Trenton says.

"I won't say I'll be fine. But, I just don't feel nervous, I can't really explain it."

"Helpful."

"You're the one who wanted an answer I can't give," Cyrus says, shrugging her shoulders.

"So your oddly calm? That's why?" Trenton recaps skeptically.

"Yeah. Hey, don't worry, I'll make sure to come back to you."

Trenton closes his eyes and takes a long breath, it does little to help alleviate his burning face though, "fine, you better come back, who else am I going to go fishing with at 5 in the morning?" he asks jokingly.

"See! I told you I can be convincing, I didn't even need to use any of my more persuasive methods," She says impishly.

Trenton coughs suddenly, pounding his chest as he turns to face her, "And… uh, what exactly, are these 'persuasive methods' you speak of? Asking for a friend," he says, adding the last sentence as an afterthought.

Cyrus breaks into laughter, unable to contain herself, "I guess, you'll never find out," she finishes, poking his nose to emphasis the point.

* * *

**AN" No Panem File for this one. The chapter's already long as is. Additionally, I'm running out of things to write about. I mean, I covered basically all I wanted with them. So honestly, I might have to fold the Panem Files, or delay them until I think of something I feel is prudent to talk about. I was thinking maybe do some for mentors. But, again, can't decide if it's worth it. **

**Anyways, this chapter got way longer than intended. But I felt like it needed to be this long, for continuity's sake. If that makes sense. Next up, District 1! Hopefully I can ramp up my writing speed too. I want to try to get something out weekly. Weekly is my goal! Although, it's roughly translated to: every 5-14 days give or take... It's pretty bad. Also, I apologize if there's some errors in here. I'm not a good editor as is, but given how this is almost double the size I'm used to. Well, things are more likely to slip through the cracks.**

**Happy Canada Day!**


	8. District 1 Reapings?

_District 1, Zenith Academy, front entrance_

_8:03AM, 2 weeks before the reaping… _

_POV – Midnight Tyrian_

Midnight along with the other representatives of the Factory step out of the transport vehicle, all stiff and sore given the compactness of the bus. Midnight rolls his shoulders and crack his neck as he steps off, he squints and raises a hand to block out the sun. It helps and he marches towards the school, not bothering to wait for the other tournament participates or the trainers.

As it stands, he barely respects them. Only Renegade would ever receive the otherwise impossible expression. Midnight owes the man a lot, even this opportunity wouldn't be his if not for Renegade. He must pay the man back, after he wins this tournament and gains the right to volunteer. He'll win the Games. Use the money from them to pay for everything his private trainer gave him.

It's that simple, really.

Midnight goes through some light stretches as he walks up to the academy's entrance. It looks unbearably pompous, very different to the one he attends.

The Factory, as it's called is seen as the most inferior of all academies. And, if one were to look at the statistics, they would be right. The Factory generated only a single victor in the last 40 years. Garnet Easton, winner of the 84th Games.

She was brutal, tenacious and clinical, at the very least, she lived up to the academy's reputation. It's all they have really. The Factory is named as such because they pump out almost mechanically similar vicious warriors, one could say they've been inspired by 2.

Midnight grins at the thought, not him. He's far above the riffraff.

With a smug confident smirk in place, he slams the double doors open and strolls in as if he's the headmaster of the place.

Some students turn to look at him from their lockers, and what else can he really call them? They actually are students. Zenith Academy and AICE, or Adlington Institute of Combat and Education both double as combat schools and regular ones. Boarding schools to boot, only the rich and most prestigious of individuals can even have the chance to attend. That's not even including their insanely high standards and expel rates. The academies go through students faster than his sociopathic sister goes through friends, read: slaves.

The Factory is much simpler, "you pay, you stay." As everyone from the other academies love to affectionately remind him. Midnight isn't particularly one for school rivalries or school pride for that matter. But, if they intend to slight him for where he studies, well, then he'll just have to remind them of their place.

Firmly beneath his boot.

Midnight glares at the younger students, prompting them to scurry down the hall, he lets his haunting smirk remain, satisfied with his result.

Said smirk is promptly erased from his mouth the moment he feels something smack against the back of his head.

"Don't start shit this early in the morning, Cadet Tyrian," the voice behind him says tiredly.

Midnight scowls as he rubs his head, feeling humiliated by the action. He doesn't lash out though, instead he turns and lazily salutes towards The Factory's prized jewel.

"Sorry Madam Easton, a lapse of discipline," He drones out, used to saying such a line before.

Garnet Easton narrows her eyes, but doesn't press the matter, "see to it that it doesn't happen again, I must speak with the headmaster, can I trust you all to act your damn age until I return?"

She pointedly stares at Midnight, who raises an eyebrow and stares down the trainer challengingly, as if demanding her to say what she really thinks. Garnet clicks her tongue in frustration and leaves the group by the entrance.

Midnight smirks at her retreating figure, his namesake navy blue eyes crinkling in smug satisfaction.

"Well fucking done Tyrian, already making us look like trash from the start," one of his fellow Factory cadets says snidely.

Midnight spins on his heels, looking at the teen in question with painfully clear disinterest, he slowly looks the larger male up and down, almost clinically given his lethargic pace, "right… who are you again?"

The smug sneer disappears for a positively glowering one, "You better wat-"

"Oh that's right!" Midnight interrupts, raising a finger as if he just received a divine epiphany, "I actually don't give a shit. My apologies, I'm certain you were just dying to introduce yourself."

"You tiny fu-"

"And one more thing," Midnight says snippily, prompting silence from all of his fellow cadets, "remember your place, as nothing more than foils that will further elevate my success here," The small teen finishes with a fictitious bow and flourish.

With that, Midnight walks off, lazily waving over his head as he marches down one of the halls.

"You bastard! Trainer Easton said we're suppose to-" the cadet abruptly snaps his mouth close.

After all, Midnight isn't dignifying him with a glance, much less a verbal response. That's not to say he doesn't respond though, even if it's through morphing his waving hand to a sole middle finger.

* * *

_8:27AM, Zenith Academy, locker rooms..._

_POV – Mischa Morrigan_

Mischa steps into the locker room, her gaze wondering along it's walls. It's similar to AICE, that much she can quickly tell. A bountiful number of large lockers kept in the center, some benches and a separate room that leads to private showers. After this tournament, she wouldn't be opposed to at least trying them out, and if her expectation and standards are anything to go by, she no doubt will likely need to use them anyways.

Mischa readjusts her bag as she steps forward, opening one of the lockers. She stands before it, pondering whether it would be sensible to leave her stuff here despite her technically being told it safe to do so.

She can't lock it she notes instantly, and the tournament will take place outdoors, in Zenith's training grounds. Meaning she will be away and outside of the school most of the day.

She shakes her head, deciding that keeping her belongings close is the most secure option. She does strip out of her AICE uniform and change into the AICE tracksuit. The design is quite plain, maroon with golden sleeves and collar. Her mom would probably have a few choice words for the jarring mix of the two colours.

"Ugh, I'm honestly not even surprised you're already here," a voice says from behind her.

Mischa smirks, recognizing the tone instantly, she turns and faces her friend and fellow tournament participant, "Delilah, how nice of you to show up."

"Not nice enough apparently, you look like you were just finishing up," the girl says tiredly, moving into the locker room and allowing her fellow female AICE participants to enter and disperse inside.

"I am," Mischa agrees, nodding her head.

Her friend rests her hands on her hips, letting her duffel bag fall and dangle from the point where her hand is pocketing her shorts, "oh good. I, and the rest of the ladies were getting worried you didn't have the motivation to be here," her friend deadpans.

Mischa smiles sweetly, a practiced smile that Delilah sees through instantly, causing the friend to sigh.

"Are you going to at least wait for me? Or are you going to go ahead on this too?"

"You still need to ask?" Mischa asks, quirking an eyebrow in feigned confusion.

Delilah laughs, conceding the point, "of course! How foolish of me to think you'd ever risk your perfect record of 30 minutes too early," the girl says dramatically.

"If you're not early, you're late," Mischa says, shrugging.

"Only you believe that," her friend deadpans.

"Regardless, get changed quickly and meet me outside, Zenith and D1CA are already here. We should scout them out."

Delilah ducks her head exasperatedly but complies, she steps aside, letting Mischa leave the lockerroom.

Mischa walks down the corridors with ease. She showed up 30 minutes before her peers, and decided to scout the school grounds, she was questioned by Zenith staff given her AICE uniform, but after explaining her purpose, she was given permission to wander the halls so long she didn't disturb anyone.

Not that classes were even operating today. The Hunger Games Selection Tournament, or HGST for short is an annual event that garners quite a lot of local attention. AICE and Zenith, being primarily combat schools are closed during the day of the event. And usually a lot of people come to watch the high level of combat.

Mischa rounds the corner and exits the door, adjusting to the sun beaming down onto her, she blinks a few times before stepping down the path, near the back of the main building. She decides to cut the path, and steps onto the crisp and well-maintained grass as she ventures more directly to the large elevated stage.

It's circular, being 20 feet in diameter, around it no more than 5 feet away are bleachers that are currently being packed by eager viewers. On opposite ends of the stage, are large tents where the participant for the upcoming match wait, it's main function being a waiting room really. There's some stalls set up not too far from the stage too, selling merchandise, food and offering some carnival like games.

The HGST is quite the festive event that a lot of the district has come to enjoy. It's supplied by the four combat academies and the Mayor's office even pitches in to help. After all, in District 1, there's nothing more glorious than participating in the Games.

Some things come close, like being models. A ludicrous notion to some, but District 1 really is known for their luxuries and beauty. The Morrigan family even more so. The thought causes Mischa's lips to thin bitterly. She's more than that, she'll prove it here.

She goes to the participant bleacher section, which as the name suggests is left open exclusively for the 32 participants for the tournament.

D1CA and Zenith are already loitering in their own cliques, taking opposite corners of the bleachers. Sighing, Mischa might as well stake her own claim for AICE and makes her way to the bottom left.

She hasn't even taken her seat when she's hearing the murmurs of the participants around her, no doubt making crude or insulting remarks about her. Their hushed laughter and pointed glances doing little to dissuade her assessment.

"Sheep will be sheep, that's my spot by the way," someone says.

Mischa takes a deep breath before turning with a smile on her face. The teen before her looks small, blue eyes, dirty blond hair styled in what she presumes it suppose to be a mohawk and a completely self-satisfying smug smirk. He's wearing a gray track suit, the colours of the Factory.

She nods her head, slings her bag over her shoulder and turns wordlessly, going to the other end of the bleacher.

"What? No comment from everyone's _least_ favourite Morrigan Sister?" The boy asks snidely, his eyes glinting with malicious amusement.

Mischa freezes mid-step, her foot suspended in the air for a split second before she finishes her stride. She tils her head to the side and stares at the smaller teen, "It's certainly better than the alternative," She says, eyeing up and down the teen in disappointment.

"Care to explain?" His smirk vanishes along with the amusement in his eyes and tone.

"Simple really, you've heard of me, I can't for the life of me recall who you are."

He chuckles, his smug jovial demeanour resurfacing, "Who hasn't heard of you? The pretty face of the Morrigan family. A real life doll, my, how the middle-aged adore you," The boy ranted on, using obnoxious voices as he continues to lace venomous compliments.

Mischa forces herself to smile in response, although she can feel her mouth trying to twitch into a frown. Her fists are clenching too. She takes a deep breath and closes her eyes for a second before opening them.

Her chocolate brown eyes flicker to meet his own blue eyes, "I'd ask who hurt you, but… it's quite clear to me that the answer would be yourself."

She doesn't wait for an answer and marches to her side of the bleacher, missing the hateful glare she receives in turn. She lands on the bench with more force than necessary and drops her duffel bag unceremoniously in front of her, wafting a small dust cloud from the patted down dirt.

"So, who exactly are you trying to kill with that glare?" Delilah asks quizzically, finally walking up to her friend with a quirked eyebrow, she sits beside her friend with a grin.

"Factory's cadet over there," Mischa says after a moments contemplation.

"Small, scraggly and failed mohawk over there?" Delilah not so subtly looks over.

"The one,"

"What he do? Confess his undying love to your everlasting beauty?" She asks sarcastically.

"Please don't joke about that. No, he was mocking me for my status as a Morrigan Sister."

Delilah rises to her feet abruptly, being immediately pulled by her wrist to sit back down.

"Not worth getting disqualified over," Mischa reminds.

"Does the dick even knows what he's talking about?"

"Unlikely."

"Fan-fucking-tastic, let me go and rectify that for him," Delilah comments, her face frosty, contrasting entirely with the sweet smile she has plastered on her face.

"I'd prefer not to be an accessory to your crime if you can help it," Mischa says, sighing tiredly when Delilah remains stiff in her grasp.

"The tiny bastard probably won't even get out of the round of 16. Fuck, what's he even thinking letting morons like that represent the Factory," her friend hisses, glancing at the teens tracksuit.

"Headmaster Garrington?" Mischa asks.

"Who else runs the Factory?"

Mischa ducks her head, relenting the point.

"We will now commence with the Female Hunger Games Selection Tournament," a host calls from the stage.

There's cheers from virtually all the bleachers. Mischa can't help but let the bafflement bleed through her usual unflappable features. How are people actually this invested in the Games? She's quick to chalk it up to morbid fascination, conformity too. She's hardly the exception, conforming to the societal expectations of her district.

Well, perhaps not entirely, given how she'd likely have been some trophy wife if she didn't push to participate in the Games. She sometimes wonders just how much of her intentions is her own free will. The district is pro-games. So, did she really have any other option but the Games, given her family's status? What else could she have done between being some ceo's wife or fighting to the death against other children?

What does it say about her that she chose the latter?

Delilah nudges her shoulder, grabbing her attention, she turns to face her friend with a confused expression.

"If I have to see you mope around all day I'm just going to sit with my brother," her friend says, looking unimpressed.

"Sorry, sorry. Also, if you plan on threatening me with your absence, you should at least make it convincing," Mischa comments.

"Yeah, I realized the moment I said it," Delilah concedes, rubbing the back of her head sheepishly.

Not that Mischa faults her. She was just trying to cheer her up, in her own, weird roundabout way. After all, Mischa can relate to Delilah's plight, given her own. The two strive to reach expectations, but at the same time, go beyond them.

Delilah's brother, Caspian Garrington is the first and only headmaster of a combat academy that isn't a victor. He's the youngest headmaster as well. Normally, said distinctions wouldn't paint the respective academy in a good lighting. However, given how he's in charge of the Factory of all things.

Well, the spartan academy is known for their emphasis on combat prowess. It's rather telling when a young man takes the helm, he apparently teaches as well. He's bolstered the Garrington family through his tenacious work alone. It's quite impressive, but it also has entirely shadowed the second child of the family.

And then, there's the Morrigan Family. Her father directly works with the Capitol, and her mother was a model for Capitol fashion before retiring. The two have direct contacts and relations with the Capitol, enhancing the family name. And that's not even including the Morrigan Sisters.

The fact that such a title exists should be telling enough of the reputation of her eldest siblings. Just the very thought is making her feel anxious. No one would even fault her for not being half as good as her sisters. No one would even care.

"You know what, I actually don't care if you stay like this. Imagine that, Mimi Morrigan flunks out in the round of 16 because she was brooding the whole damn time, that'll be a riot," Delilah comments offhandedly, using the ridiculous nickname she knows Mischa hates.

It has an immediate effect, drawing Mischa's deadpan stare towards her friend.

"I'm stopping now."

"Good girl! She _can_ be trained."

"I'd prefer you didn't relegate me to a pet if you could."

"I'll take it into consideration."

"…I suppose that's about what I expected."

* * *

_12:28PM, Zenith Academy training grounds…_

_POV – Midnight Tyrian_

The Morrigan Sister dodges yet another strike with nimble deftness that even he must admit is quite good. Midnight's not so conceited he can't admit when talent's being presented before him. And even if he were, he's certainly not stupid enough to not realize a threat when it presents itself either.

She's making an absolute mockery of his fellow Factory participant, whatever her name is. The Morrigan Sister's fighting style is poise, and resemblances something akin to dancing if he's being honest. It' quite entertaining, and the audience is eating it up.

Midnight turns to the VIP bleachers, where all the headmasters are sitting and watching the fight with stoic and impassive expressions. Well most of them, Headmaster Adlington is looking quite smug with that self-satisfied smirk and relaxed posture.

Beyond the headmasters, there's the mentors for the district too. Opal Barrineau and Jasper Solace. If he recalls one came from AICE and the other D1CA respectively. The Mayor and some of his advisors are sitting in the VIP section too, to round it up, there's some investors and board members of each academy.

Essentially every single most important person to do with the Games in 1 is watching. The very thought frays his nerves, he finds himself fidgeting anxiously as he returns to watch the Morri-

_THUMP_

Wait, she won already? When? How? He looked away for maybe half a second. His shock quickly morphs into frustration as his blue eyes fall onto the Factory cadet with disgust. Not only did she lose, but it was via ring-out. How convenient that she happens to fall in front of him of all places too.

He looks up to the Morrigan Sister and finds his anger bubbling at the too overly sweet smile on her icy face. She did it on purpose, she sent the Factory cadet to fall at his feet. He controls his frustration and smirks at her, nodding his head in acknowledgement of her action.

"You were worth every penny, truly," He says offhandedly to the slowly standing Factory cadet.

She bristles, but immediately winces at the action, prompting Midnight to roll his eyes with disinterest as he leans back into his seat. And she's a semi-finalist to boot? Insanity. Either the Morrigan Sister is actually a serious contender, or the talent in the female pool for district one is abysmal this year.

He sighs as he runs his hand through his hair. Not like it'll matter anyways; he's not planning on working with his fellow Careers.

He stands up, and stretches. The other semi-final match is about to start, but he finds It hardly worth his time. Instead, he'll go to the stands and get something to eat, he's starving. With that in mind, he makes his way from the stage and towards some of the stalls.

Given how it's just roughly half pass noon, the stalls aren't really all that crowded, with the exception of the lunch rush. It'll get considerably more crowded when the men's section starts their tournament.

He quickly orders a hot-dog and decides to walk along the stalls while eating his meal, to burn some time.

"Honestly, not surprised to see you're here instead of watching the semi-finals," a voice says exasperatedly.

Midnight stiffens, his eyes bugging at the sound of the voice, he spins and stares incredulously at his mentor and confidant.

"What the-, Renegade? What are you doing here?"

"What am I doing at my pupil's tournament? Spectating most likely," he answers good-naturedly.

"R-right, I knew that, but why? I mean, don't get me wrong, glad to see you but it-"

"Easy Night, Factory's closed down for the day, I don't have much to do so I figured I'd drop by and watch."

Midnight laughs nervously and hastily tosses the hot-dog into the nearest trash can, smiling innocently, "Well then, guess I'll try not to disappoint you," he says, if only really to fill in the silence.

Renegade laughs at the remark, "Disappoint me? Are you second guessing yourself?'

"Not really, but it certainly felt like that polite thing to say," Midnight says with a shrug.

"And what do you really think?" his mentor asks indulgently.

Midnight smirks smugly, "You're looking at District 1's tribute for the 99th Hunger Games," He finishes with a dramatic flourish.

Renegade laughs boisterously at the claim, "That does sound like you, can you back it up?" The man asks knowingly.

"I've memorized their fighting styles, their strengths, weaknesses, usual feints, usual shortcuts, favoured openings, tells- you know, the typical stuff," Midnight explains with a shrug.

"Whose?" Renegade continues, smirking himself.

"All of them."

* * *

_4:45PM, Zenith Academy training grounds…_

_POV – Jasper Solace_

The mentor examines the final match with a critical gaze.

Midnight Tyrian from the Factory verse Platinum Osorio of D1CA. On paper, the match should be a blow out, Osorio stands 6'1, and is built like a bull. Jasper personally knows of the boy's overwhelming strength and combat prowess. He's helped the boy achieve that.

Still, Tyrian is quite the welcomed surprise. He's performed so impressively that Jasper laments not knowing of him sooner. He's shown a surprising ability to predict his opponent's movements. It's almost as if the shorter teen knows what his opponent plans on doing before they themselves know. Almost as if he's clairvoyant. Jasper snorts at his stupid joke, obviously the real case is that the boy simply plans ahead, pragmatically so.

He either studied up on the other participants meticulously or is just naturally an instinctive combatant. A mix of both most likely. Jasper would obviously prefer Osorio as the tribute for the Games, given he's worked with the boy himself. But, Jasper wouldn't complain with Tyrian either. He can work with both he concludes happily.

Jasper hears roaring cheers and refocuses on the spar before him. Tyrian lands a strong blow to Osorio's temple and skips back dodging the retaliatory slash. Tyrian's hopping all over the place, only staying still for a half a second before lunging back into the fray.

He's keeping Osorio off balance and continues his hit-and-run combat. Death by a thousand micro-cuts, so it seems. The two are using practice swords, although it seems Tyrian opted for a smaller blade whereas Osorio chose one slightly larger.

The two are quite opposites in that regard, Jasper realizes. Everyone's forced to use standard practice swords until the semi-finals. There, although one's forced to continue using swords, they can use customized ones, catered to their respective styles. Jasper himself used something similar to Tyrian's sword, a gladius.

However, he can tell Tyrian's form is fundamentally a bit shaky with his own blade, probably accustomed to things even shorter than what he's using. Knives maybe? They obviously aren't allowed in tournaments; the weight difference would be too overwhelming a handicap.

The two combatants lock blades, Osorio grins and pushes forward easily overpowering Tyrian. Or so he thinks. Tyrian dives back, kicking his leg upwards and catching his heel against Osorio's wrist, smacking the blade from his hand.

Tyrian completes the roll deftly, using his own momentum to spin on his heels, turning his position to end up facing towards his opponent. Osorio is off-balance from the acrobatic attack and scrambles to the side for his sword.

The smaller teen pushes his advantage.

Jasper nods his head approvingly. Getting hit three times while disarmed counts for an immediate defeat. Osorio knows this and starts to desperately dance around Tyrian's slashes and jabs.

The bigger teen is clearly unfamiliar with moving to such levels of nimbleness, his desperation heavily present. Jasper sighs seeing it. Tunnel vision. Three slashes signify he can at the least tank one for his sword. It might hurt, but at the least, he would be armed again and ultimately nullify the 3-hit unarmed rule.

But Osorio got too hung up on with trying not to get hit at all that he gave up any chance of getting his sword back. Jasper turns to look towards the headmaster of D1CA. Augustus Braun looks on impassively, although his mouth is set in a slight frown.

Jasper turns back just in time to see Tyrian usher Osorio off the stage with a well-timed toss of his blade.

The idea itself may sound ridiculous, but as a distraction it had a very immediate effect. Osorio's focus was exclusively on the blade, dodging it and promptly putting himself off balance by the edge of the stage. Regardless of Tyrian's size, even he can push something down that's already falling.

There's a thump and groan, but it's quickly masked by the rambunctious roar of the audience at seeing such a spectacular display. Tyrian eats it up, egging on the cheering by raising his own hands in satisfaction. The host comes onto the stage and starts congratulating the teen too.

Jasper feels some shifting and turns, seeing his fellow mentor excusing herself from chatting with some board members. She turns to glance at Jasper, winks and then walks down the bleachers.

His smile falls, and twists into a frown. He scowls at her retreating figure and watches it disappear in the sea of cheering spectators. She's undoubtedly going to meet with Morrigan, no doubt already plotting ways to manipulate his tribute, ways to trick, humiliate, undermine, kil-

Jasper clutches his knees, gripping them tightly. His blood boils at the mere thought of Barrineau. That manipulative snake, she's the sole reason why District 1 hasn't had a victor since her. She's too hung up with the perfect Hunger Games, too hung up with emulating her success in the arena, too hung up with the 'perfect manipulation'. She's destructive, conceited and far too self-centered.

Jasper grits his teeth, his gaze returning to Tyrian as the smaller teen walks off the stage. Jasper rises from his own seat, he'll need to prepare Tyrian immediately. His deadliest enemy will be his closest ally after all.


	9. District 5 & 6 Reapings

_District 5, 3:47PM, One day before the Reaping…_

_POV – Emerald Locke _

Emerald hums a cheery beat as she walks down the sidewalk, a bag slung over her shoulder and a large envelope under her left arm. There's a spring to her step, and her movements are excited and animated. She takes a rather large, embellished sidestep to avoid a fellow pedestrian, but proceeds to wave her hand at the younger looking man, to assuage any worries.

"Good afternoon sir," she greets, her green eyes crinkle as she beams brightly at the passerby.

The man stammers a greeting in return, and Emerald acknowledges with a nod of her head as she continues down the road. She greets four other pedestrians in a similair fashion, not at all put off by their confused responses, or lack thereof entirely.

She looks up to the sun for a fifth time and smiles to herself, her eyes flickering to the envelope under her arm. It's been overcast and raining for the last few weeks, making it practically impossible for her to paint any outdoor settings, a great preference of hers. Thankfully, the weather is permitting today with baby blue skies, cotton candy clouds and a large beaming sun.

It makes her giddy just thinking of the wonderful afternoon she has planned for herself. She continues down the road, making a few zigzag turns before finally stopping at one of the few parks in the district. The green grass and few trees a stark contrast to the greys, whites and blacks of the district's buildings. It's a pleasant contrast that liberates Emerald, she can't resist but fall into a light jog as she advances to the park.

She walks down the pathway and diverges onto the grass, finding the same familiar spot she's been scouting out during all of those gloomy rainy days. It's a vast improvement in her opinion, having the sun in the back with the sky no longer a bleak grey.

She'd much prefer to paint a happy picture than a profound or sad one. She opens the envelope, and grabs the small wooden stand and canvas, positioning them in place, directly in front of a lone tree on a hill.

The sun splashes off each leaf, painting the tree in a greenish yellow hue, the intricate shadowy pattern that falls under it sways in tandem with the breeze, and it takes Emerald a lot of will power to not just stop setting up her stand to just go and take a nap then and there.

She persists though, finishes preparing and immediately starts to run her brush against the canvas. She hums to herself, a grin plastered on her face and her eyes knitted in concentration, unaware as the hours pass her.

* * *

_6:21PM, One day before the Reaping…_

_POV – Newton Faraday _

The small tennis ball stays in the air, as if suspending at its apex before coming back down to the waiting open palm. He clasps onto the ball, preventing it's escape and repeats the motion in a mechanically bored fashion.

The small red-headed teen lays on the couch, his feet dangling over the top with his head just remaining in the air, the blood slowly rushing to his head in the upside-down position. Not that it bothered the teen at all.

Boredom, a fickle emotion that truly leaves people at their mental worst. Newton sighs tiredly, blinking blearily at his repetitions. Unfortunately, he's hardly as dexterous as he'd hope, and the ball smacked against one of his outstretched fingers before rolling across the ground.

Newton hisses and quickly goes to squeeze his finger, finding that the pressure alleviates some of the pain. He sits up from his laying position and feels himself go light-headed at the action, his dizzy spell makes his vision swim and head wobble for a second before he shakes it off.

"Newt, dinner's ready co- what are you doing?" A voice calls from the kitchen, abruptly shifting into a deadpan once seeing the redhead outstretch his hands for balance.

"Nothing," Newt responds hastily, dropping his arms onto his lap and smiling innocently.

"Riiight. Well, if you're done, go wash your hands and meet us in the dining room," The man instructs, a smirk on his lips as he leaves the room.

Newt slides off the couch, draping across the floor for a second before springing to his feet. He quickly does as he's told and rushes into the dining room, there sitting at the table is his sister-in-law, Genera. She's a pretty woman the same age as his brother.

Ever since the accident, Newt spent a lot of time with his brother and Genera, both acting as legal guardians until he's of age. It was a rocky, and rather awkward start living with his brother, mostly because Newt couldn't help but feel as if he was imposing and ultimately rupturing his brother's life with his own presence. That belief was all the more emphasized by the fact that the apartment had thin walls, so there was that scandalizing realization too.

Newt's undecided whether he should blush, gag or snicker at the thought, and just compromises by doing all three. The adults give him a curious look, quirking their eyebrows in confusion. If only they knew.

"Ah, sorry, was reminisst- reminiscing," Newt quickly explains, unfazed by the verbal stammer.

"What about?" His brother, Eddison asks, spooning a mouthful of soup as he finishes.

Newt pales, "Oh, uh, n-nothing important, just random stuff, already forgot it."

A lie, Newt fears he'll never be able to forget.

"Hmm," Eddison hums, not believing the statement at face value, but also simultaneously deciding that pushing the topic wasn't worth the trouble.

Something Newt's grateful for, he sighs in relief, visibly pleased by the silence embracing the dining table.

"You sure? Doesn't sound like you've forgotten?" Genera prompts with a gentle smile.

"God fucking damnit…" Newt whispers, drooping his head in what he already knows will turn out to be an unbearably embarrassing conversation.

* * *

_District 6, 8:19AM, Day of the Reapings…_

_POV – Corolla Beron_

"-up, Corolla."

The girl in question grunts out something akin to a complaint as she sinks deeper underneath her blankets, her face snuggling the pillow instinctively, almost defensively. She didn't know what time it was, but certain she still had plenty.

She needed to use every second to recuperate after her tiring long shift last night. Tavern work isn't normally exhausting, but given how it was the day before the reaping. Well, needless to say, a lot of irresponsible parents were essentially building up a buffer for the dreadful moments to come. She wouldn't fault them for that, but boy did it mean she had to constantly get drinks, wash mugs and cups and deliver dishes every other minute.

Just the thought of it still makes the soles of her feet cry out in sore agony. And the fact she can very visibly recall last night, basically means she's wide awake now. She grumbles at the realization and futilely buries herself some more.

"Corolla, come on, you need to wake up."

At this point, it's quite clear to Corolla that her uncle, Axle by the sounds of it- knew she was already awake. However, Axle never truly pressed the matter on anything. It pleased and at the same time infuriated Corolla knowing this.

Anything she wanted, she could have, the only price being that she will be eternally seen as nothing more than a fragile high-maintenance doll. And sure, the notion at first sounds plea sent enough, who doesn't want to be pampered? But after time, after being coddled and suffocated by her uncles, she wants it to stop. She doesn't want to be treated like glass. Yet, given her current predicament and behaviour for that matter, she can't deny that she's not doing much to alter that perception. She wouldn't put it past her uncle to try to find a way for her to not even show up to the reapings at all if possible. As such, she sighs and groggily forces herself up.

"Welcome to the world of the living," Axle says, crossing his arms with a satisfied smile.

"Yes, yes, it's nice to be back," Corolla responds dryly, her tone lacking the same cheer.

"Busy night?"

"Ughh, you have no idea. We had a line waiting outside. We never have a line! This district Is full of drunks, I tell you," Corolla rants.

Axle laughs at her outburst, "it wasn't all bad I hope?"

"Hmm, well, I guess there were more tips than usual."

"See, that's not too bad?"

"Except, I got hit on way more by a bunch of dads," Corolla says with a sigh.

"I'll kill them all," Axle says in the same cheerful tone.

Corolla stares at her uncle skeptically_. Is he serious or…?_

She shakes her head, deciding to leave that can of worms, firmly shut. She slips out of her bed and goes through a few quick stretches, "So, are you and Fermin going to be at the reapings?"

"Of course, we'll be with you every step of the way. Just think Cory, your last reaping. After this, you'll be free, we'll be free."

Corolla forces a smile, not really knowing what else she can add to the statement. She wishes she could share her uncle's optimism.

* * *

_9:20AM, Day of the reaping…_

_POV – Vortex Senna _

Vortex exhales, letting the smoke plume out of his nostrils and mouth. He sighs, already feeling his frayed nerves calming. He really needed one, has been for a few weeks now.

"Jesus, Tex, can you not blow that shit over to my face, please? Thanks," His friend calls from across from him.

Vortex focuses on her, she's sitting on a broken stool, bottle in hand, and wearing what probably was supposed to be a black dress. It's riddled with stains, making it appear faint. But, it's the most presentable thing she owns, so he can't really judge.

"Sorry," He eventually says, seeing her expectant frown.

She relents and chugs the remainder of her drink in a swift gulp. The gesture was not lost on him, his chocolate brown eyes bugging as she sighs in satisfaction. Hard liquor, she just drank hard liquor as if it were water in a blistering desert, like it was nothing. Well, knowing her, it probably wasn't.

But, he's tried alcohol before, it burns, feels as if lead is weighing down on his esophagus, and the taste is usually bitter and far too stimulating for his taste buds. He usually gags.

"You really shouldn't have done that," a voice calls, prompting the two friends to turn and face another.

Yago, he's a tall boy. He's leaning against the cracked and peeling wall, his eyes fixates on his fingernails. He's carrying himself with great disinterest. Makes sense, Vortex concludes. One friend is smoking, the other is drinking. Yago does neither, actively avoids it really. Jaycee has long since stopped trying to pressure him into trying.

It's actually quite impressive that Yago hasn't succumbed to any of the dirtier vices 6 has to offer. He doesn't drink, smoke, drug himself or spend time indulging in carnal activities. He's quite clean, pure even. Then again, he has vicious mood swings, from bubbly and energetic, to downright malicious and enraged. So, the integrity of his purity is something to scrutinize and take with a grain of salt. Again, not that Vortex feels the need to judge.

"Bite me, I'll do whatever the hell I want," Jaycee says, leaning back on the stool and fetching something from behind some broken crates.

Probably used to store whatever this store used to sell, now that Vortex is cognizant of it. He finds himself surveying his surroundings. He's sitting on a couch along with his last unintroduced friend, Snow. Standing by the wall is Yago, and sitting on a stool by the counter and broken crates is Jaycee.

The broken windows are loosely boarded in with planks, letting in some of the natural sunlight to bleed through the cracks. It makes all the dust in this room glaringly evident. This building is supposed to be demolished… three, maybe four years ago?

It's a testimony to the state of the district that it hasn't been. Still, it makes for quite a nice hangout, and Vortex can't help but feel a bit of pride in seeing that he's managed to gather an odd assortment of friends to use this as their hideout.

Perhaps a bit childish, but, in a lawless district as 6, it's much better to be indoors or in groups, especially as children or women. The disparity between the rich and poor in the district is just too big. The peacekeepers are also fundamentally useless, they don't do anything unless it somehow involves the Capitol.

Vortex sighs, his nerves are already kicking in, he looks to the lit cigarette and quickly raises it to his mouth.

"Blow that in my face, and we're fighting,"

Vortex heeds her warning with a nod, and blows his smoke upwards, with that he stands abruptly. Yago notices the movement and steps away from the wall, staring at his friend curiously.

"It's time to go," Vortex says.

The three friends around him nod. It makes Vortex smile, knowing that they listen to him easily. He knows it's only because of the countless time he's proven to be someone worth listening too. Being the voice of reason, and the backbone of the group forced him into taking on a bit of a leadership role. Sure, he'd indulge some more mischievous incidents from time to time, but never let them step out of bounds, do anything that could garner the ire of the peacekeepers. That'd be the equivalent to suicide.

But, he digresses, he pats down his dress pants, wafting dust in the air as he makes his way to the doorway.

"YO, I'm not late am I?" A small head of greasy dirty blond hair pokes out from the side of the doorway, a toothy grin on their face as they stare at each pair of exasperated eyes landing on him.

"No, of course not, Tin, right on schedule," Vortex says with a smile.

"I am?"

"Fuck no asshole! We were supposed to be here at 8:30 dickwad!?" Yago bristles and shouts at him.

Tin wilts under the visceral tone, "o-oh…"

"No, it's fine Yago, I said 8:30 to accommodate Tin anyways, we should still get there on schedule if we leave now," Vortex is quick to placate, patting his friends' shoulder.

"Oh. Well, sorry Tin, my bad," Yago rectifies easily.

"O-oh?"

"Perfect! Let's all head out then," Vortex says, not waiting for a response and rather uses his departure as incentive enough to persuade his peers into action.

He hears step fall into line behind him, and he smiles to himself hearing it.

* * *

_District 5, 10:15AM, Day of the Reapings…_

_POV – Emerald Locke_

Emi stares at the screen with rapt attention, her green eyes unblinking as she watches the boy from 10 cut down the one from 4. It's a gruesome kill, as blood splatters like a balloon popping. The boy from district 4 drop instantly like a rag doll. Emi notices exactly the moment he dies, not difficult to decipher, really sword slashes across chest, sparks of blood, slumping corpse. Very straight forward, she doesn't peel her eyes off the battle once, unflinching even during the bloody finale.

Only when the horns blare, signifying District 10's victory does she abruptly snap out of her trance. She blinks a few times and makes to stand only for her vision to swim, it's enough to convince her to remain seated and collect her bearings.

Her gaze flickers to the window, the grey sheet of clouds casting over the sky makes her pout a bit. She then turns to face the corner of her room, where she has her canvas and its incomplete picture.

She got a lot done yesterday, but once the sun finally set and the lamplights flicked on, well, the aesthetic of her picture kind of disappeared. Emi shrugs and stands up all in one motion, she quickly fumbles through multiple summer dresses before settling on a pastel green one.

She rushes towards the mirror and beams brightly at her image. Her long golden blonde hair, tan smooth skin and emerald green eyes are displayed before her. She beams, finding herself to look cute, if not, then at least presentable. Even the small scar on her hand doesn't detract from her overall look, contrasting against her skin quite prominently.

She got the scar when she was just starting out, when her 'uncle' took her under his wing in the hopes of preventing the same fate that befell Sal. The thought puts a damper on her mood, her smile faltering.

The minute distraction causes her eyes to wander, more importantly to her neckline and widen slightly, her necklace! She rushes back to her drawers, first checking the counter.

Then, she opted to rummage through the drawers themselves, first one, clothing, duh. Second, more clothing, third, a collection of knives, she slams the drawer shut, and blows some strands of hair out of her face.

She goes to the last, bottom drawer and finds her assortment of paints, brushes and crafts. That falls to the limelight when her gaze zeroes in on the rose gold accessory. She delicately lifts it, feeling a bit sheepish for placing it in her crafts drawer of all places.

She puts it on and makes her way downstairs where both her parents are waiting at the dining table.

"You look beautiful," Her mother starts.

Emi smiles brightly under the praise, enjoying the affection. It dawns on her then that the only reason she's dressing up is for the reaping to begin with, causing her smile to slowly fade.

"None of that missy, eat breakfast, then we can all go together, got it?" Her dad says, feigning a strict tone.

"Mhm, got'cha," She answers, practically diving into her seat, her focus already shifting to the food on her plate with ravenous gusto.

* * *

_11:49AM_

_POV – Newton Faraday _

The documentary video finally ends, and the mayor coughs into the mic. Newt straightens a bit, yawning as he rubs the sleep from his eyes. It's the same boring speech every single time, one of these reapings, he'll manage to fall asleep standing, he just knows it.

The escort comes marching onto the stage, all military like, his suit camo grey with a hood draped over his head. Almost like he just came back from some urban sniper nest or something incredibly unrealistic given his Capitolite accent. Newt finds his mouth thinning at the gross design, and his eyes drift down to the grey dress shirt he's wearing. They're practically the same shade of grey. Damnation, just his luck.

Through his own mollification, he didn't even hear the man go through the usual fanfare of introductions, not that there was much to begin with, the escort following a theme and all. He marches straight to the girl's bowl and spears his hand into the piles of slips.

"Emerald Locke, come forward. You are District 5's female tribute," The escort says robotically the moment his mouth is near the mic.

Newt grimaces at the tactless tone. Yet, despite that, his eyes wander through the crowd, trying to spot the misfortunate tribute. Eventually, a girl breaks into the aisle, her face seems to be going through a myriad of expressions before it settles into a thin frown.

She's not really shaking, as Newt no doubt knows he would. He still feels bad for her, the Games are a punishment after all, and her chances of survival are 1 in 24, not including other pressing factors.

Daedalus- the escort, paths towards the male's section and in much the same fashion, wastes no time at all in picking the next unfortunate soul.

"Newton Faraday, come forward. You are District 5's male tribute," The escort says in his clipped and clinical fashion, as if he's giving a diagnosis.

Due to his almost dismissive and disinterested tone, Newt doesn't even register what' the escort says, too busy squinting his eyes quizzically.

Until it all comes crashing down on him. His eyes bug out at the realization, him? He? Newton Faraday's been reaped? Screw 1 in 24, he's got even least of a chance than that! A peacekeeper eventually pulls him from the arm and drags him forward a few steps before Newt regains his motor functions and instinctively yanks his arm away from the man's flimsy grasp. The peacekeeper's eyes narrow, and Newt realizes just how dangerous an action it was to even remotely go against a peacekeeper, even if unintentionally.

"S-sorry about that! Just, distrax- distracted, I'm not running," He quickly goes to placate, raising his hands in surrender.

"Move then," The man orders.

Newt nods frantically and jogs up the aisle and onto the stage.

"Congratulations, shake hands," Daedalus orders.

Newt automatically pushes his hand forward, it's met in a surprisingly firm and vigorous handshake.

"Nice to meet'cha," The girl, Emerald says amicably, a forced smile on her face and tone equally as strained.

"L-likewise," Newt says, a crooked smile on his as he stammers over the words.

"Your tributes of District 5. An applause if you wish," The escort says, already turning away from the stage.

Mostly because he already knows he isn't going to receive one.

* * *

_District 6, 11:52AM_

_POV – Corolla Beron_

She sighs, watching with disinterest as the Mayor just finishes his third speech. First about obedience, second about penance, and this one about a 'better tomorrow'.

_What a ridiculous notion_, she thinks tiredly.

She looks around her in what feels like the tenth time in half as many minutes. Her patience is slipping, and she's tapping her foot in nervous anxiety. 7 more minutes and she's free, just 7 more and she never has to be here again.

As to why they even need to be hear, is really a point she wishes to address. It' must be a complete logistical monstrosity to gather all the possible tributes in such a confined place. It's one of the few reasons as to why she keeps looking behind her, as if trying to see beyond the sea of greys and blacks that encompass the majority of everyone's apparel.

Corolla really can't get behind the idea of the reapings. They stand against her ideal and stern principal of pragmatism. Well, not the random lots, that does make a surprising amount of sense to her. But the fact she has to stand here and wait for an hour as propaganda is shoved down her throat is simply outrageous!

It's not really an hour, but more akin to 3. Given how each person has to be individually accounted for, she finds herself waiting far longer than she'd like in a line, then subsequently some more as stragglers file in. It's just a headache to be a part of.

Still, she's painfully aware of how futile it is to complain about it. At the very least, venting her thoughts does put her at ease.

"Thank-you greatly Mayor. Now, let us begin this joyous reaping ceremony," The escort says, projecting his voice loudly into the mic.

A necessity really, otherwise people in the back just won't hear him. Although, 'joyous' really does leave a bitter taste in her mouth. His definition of the word's warped. Her attempt to distract herself halts to a stop as she watches the oddly dressed man venture towards the glass bowl.

He gently starts caressing the side of the bowl, as if it were some long lost absent lover. It makes Corolla wrinkle her face in disgust. Just how deranged are the Capitolites exactly? Karan has been the escort for as long as Corolla can remember. And every single time, he goes through this little weird tradition of caressing the female glass bowl.

Never the male. It's creepy.

After he finishes, he slowly picks a slip from the bowl and makes his way to the center of the stage.

"Once again, thank-you all for being here-"

_Yes of course, your welcome, there isn't anywhere else I'd rather be, _Corolla thinks in dry deadpan.

"-irl for District 6 is…" He pauses.

Corolla tenses, seconds. She's seconds away now. One name, just one name and she's free. Her heart's beating erratically, it feels like her chest is coiling around it, and her breathe clinches, freezing entirely as the man parts his lips and leans into the mic.

"Corolla Beron! Please make your way up to the stage young lady," Karan says.

A cold dread washes over her, her face paling considerably. She remains firmly in place, ignoring the worrying glance she's receiving from her friend.

"Miss Beron? Please come forward," The man says again, his smile straining.

Corolla snaps out of her daze and slowly pushes forward. She feels like a large part of her chest has just been removed, but still manages to have a straight face as she walks up onto the stage. The man says something to hear, but it's all white noise at this point.

He eventually gives up and makes his way to the other bowl. He wastes no time at all and grabs a piece of paper before heading back to the mic again.

Corolla's façade is cracking, tears welling at her eyes as the shock wanes and the agonizing realization that she's a walking corpse slowly starts to ensnare her mind.

"Vortex Sienna, you are the male tribute for District 6, please come here," He says with far less fanfare.

She breaks into silent sobs, her hands quickly raising to her face in a useless attempt to save it. She's far too self absorbed with her own world-shattering despair that she's unaware of the laughter that breaks through the silence.

The rest of the reapings pass by in a blur, not due to quickness. But sheer absentmindedness. Corolla only had a single line running through her head as she was introduced, told to shake hands, and escorted into the Hall.

_I'm dead. I'm dead. I'm dead. I'm dead. I'm dea-_

"Cory, I'm so sorry," Axle shouts, quickly enveloping her in a tight hug.

It grinds her thoughts to a halt, and she blinks the water out of her eyes as she stares up to her uncle. She wears a puzzled expression on her face that demands an explanation. What is he apologizing for?

"I shouldn't have… and I really shou-"

Oh, he's rambling incoherently. It strangely calms Corolla, misery likes company and all that. Still, seeing her uncle, a man who always has a kind smile on his face and goes to great lengths to appear happier than he is, crash and crumble like this really leaves her in a positively foul mood.

She looks up to her other uncle. Where Axle is related by blood, Fermin is his spouse. Anyways, her other uncle is standing a few paces behind Axle, a pained look plastering over his face. He doesn't have anything to say, murmurs quiet support and slowly peels Axle off her.

She watches as her uncles leave, and finds that with them gone, her eyes threaten to tear up again. Thankfully, her two closest friends come in next. Electra and Jonah. Jonah's quick to place a reassuring hand on her shoulder.

"My dad's got connections in high places, I'll do what I can, last a week and we can get you out," Jonah quickly instructs, he looks far less confident than he sounds.

Corolla nods her head, agreeing that her chances would in fact improve with the backing of the Wilson Family. Jonah's family is rich after all, but, also greedy. It's kind of him to promise her that, but at the same time she realizes that his father would never allow it, not unless there's some value to be gained. A week might draw interest, but she knows she needs to be top 8, maybe 6 before he considers investing in her success. Still, the sentiment is nice, even if logically unfounded.

"Cory, I don't think I need to tell you this.. but, you're smart, really smart," Electra comments.

Once again, Corolla finds herself nodding, her voice failing her at the worst possible time. She finds herself slouching, and ducking her head as she listens to both of her friends give her baseless advice. Avoid Careers? Don't get sucked into fights? Try to make allies?

That's all well and good, but that would be the equivalent of saying one only needs to build a hovercraft to fly. Easier said than done. She already knows the things she needs to do, the stuff that'll help her chances, but executing those plans is what truly poses the problem.

"Don't stop, never stop," Electra says lamely, the phrase feeling foreign coming from her mouth.

That's because it usually comes from Corolla's instead. A mantra she constantly abides by, something that she uses to help her get through the day. It prompts Corolla to snap her head towards her dark-skinned friend, a sense of clarity washing over her.

"Thank-you…" she whispers softly.

* * *

_12:11PM_

_POV – Vortex Sienna_

"Hey, are you paying attention?" Jaycee hisses in annoyance.

"Hmm? Yes, of course," Vortex answers after taking his eyes off the flowers.

Her mouth thins, "what did I say?"

"You'll miss me?"

"FUC-"

"Calm down Jaycee, please, and Tex, don't joke about that, really," Snow placates.

Vortex shrugs, but nods anyways. He's doesn't even know what's the big deal. If anyone out of his group of friends had to be reaped, it should have been him. That's not to say he'd volunteer for any of them. He loves them, but not that much, it's why he also simultaneously doesn't resent them for not bailing him out.

Besides, he has the best chance of surviving anyways. The last victor was 15, so it's not out of the realm of possibility that he can win. There was a 14yr old victor not too long ago either, from… 8? No 10?

_Doesn't matter,_ he decides as he watches his friends chatter with one another.

One last scene to remember them by. He either dies in the arena or comes back out never the same. His relationship with his friends, subsequently will be changed forever. He laughs, causing the group to stare at him varying degrees of bewilderment.

"What's so funny?" Jaycee asks with narrowing eyes.

"This situation, it's a real mess, huh?"

"That really doesn't answer her question…" Yago comments.

Vortex frowns. He supposes that's true, for them. But how can he explain it? Fitting that it's him? That he doesn't really care? That he finds himself incapable of doing so? His friends would think him suicidal, and that would do the opposite of reassuring them. Even now, he finds himself trying to comfort his friends, to be the sensible peer they can rely on.

Oddly enough, it comes to him far more naturally than thinking about his situation.

* * *

_District 5, 12:13PM_

_POV – Emerald Locke _

Her parents hug her tightly, tears spilling from their face as they let go. The plant soft kisses on her cheek before being escorted out by the peacekeepers.

She remains seated, a herculean task if she thinks so herself, her left leg twitches as if on the slightest provocation she'd book it out the doors and escape. She wants to escape. The situation couldn't be worst. Sal died in these Games 4 years ago, in his first reaping.

Slaughtered by some career in that dumpster fire of an arena. She's watched those specific Games countless times. Seeing her best friend speared through so viciously in the blood bath is an image etched perpetually in her mind. She doesn't know how to feel about it, should she hate how she can never forget? Or pleased that she can never forget him?

"Emi, are you paying attention?" The man says.

She looks up to him and smiles ruefully at being so easily distracted, she ducks her head apologetically, "sorry, just… had my mind wandering, ya know?"

"I do. Trust me, I do. You kept up with your, uh, exercises, right?" He asks.

"Yep, every night," she answers, thinking back to the knives in her drawer.

The man before her, Sal's father is like a second father figure to her. He took her under his wing and taught her some tips and tricks to survive in the arena, for if the dreadful reality ever came to be. Emi, after witnessing her best friend killed complied easily, and he, a childless parent was all too quick to treat her like a replacement.

Not that it bothered her, she likes to think she understands the pain he's going through, even now, after all of these years, he's an empty shell of his former self. She affectionately refers to him as Uncle, if to help somewhat alleviate the pain in his heart.

"Remember, lock your wrist when throwing, never flick, and let the knife slide out of your hand, guide it," Uncle instructs, drilling her with information she's long since memorized.

She nods anyways.

"Also, it doesn't have to be knives, scissors, nails, anything small and with sharp points work," He continues undeterred.

Emi nods again, her eyes flicking to the scar on her hand. Before getting actual throwing knives to work with, she had to use improvised weaponry. It was an unconventional training regime, mixed with her uncle's lack of experience teaching, and well, accidents were bound to happen. Still, she's developed a steady foundation. Something she's eternally grateful for. The hobby was fun to begin with. She still wishes she never has to use what she's learned but feels entirely far more confident knowing that she has a talent that can help protect her.

"Emerald," the man finally says, interrupting his own lecture.

The blonde looks up to him curiously, looking into his tired eyes.

"Please, come home."

The somberness makes her pause, and she bites her lip, "I… I'll try."

* * *

_12:16PM_

_POV – Newton Faraday_

Newt hugs his best friend in a fierce hug. Nina returns it just as tightly, crying into his chest.

"B-be careful out there," she pauses to hiccup before continuing, "y-you're too nice," she warns quietly.

He laughs a bit nervously, and finds his cheeks slowly colouring as the hug prolongs far longer than he ever thought it could. He eventually squirms out of her grasp before answering.

"It's never been trobe-troubling before," he tries to joke.

She glares at him and he's quick to raise his hands in surrender.

"Still, you can make friends, people will like you."

"Y-Yeah, of course."

Nina frowns and stares at the ground, her face contorts and she grimaces a bit before raising her face to look at him again, "I… uh, wel-"

"It's a fucking shitshow, can't dipu-dispute that, but I'll be damned if I don't try to come home," Newt eventually says, smiling at her.

"uh.. yeah, yes…" She stammers lamely, heat rising to her cheeks.

The embarrassment subsides and she finds herself looking to the ground again.

"I… I have to go now," She mumbles quietly.

"No worries, I'll see you soon," Newt says.

He watches as his dark-haired friend leaves the room, closing the door behind her gently. When she does, the smile falls from his face and his eyes narrow.

Nina's utterly destroyed seeing him go. Genera a crying mess, and Eddison struggling to deal with what he expects to be another lost family member. Newt needs to fix that, all of it. He needs to do whatever he can to come back. He clenches his jaw as he finds a seat in the chair again. He's already thinking of wanting to return home, despite not having left it yet. It's a grim situation he's in, one that requires his complete dedication.

He forces himself to take a few steady breaths and starts to work on formulating a course of action to follow.

* * *

**AN: Hey! I'm back! Sorry for the absence there. I had a biking accident and had to rest hand. I tried writing with one, but got frustrated and had to stop. Then, when I finally get back to a healthy spot, Fire Emblem Three Houses came out. I wasn't planning on getting it... but someone was very persuasive in convincing me, so I spent a few hours (edit: days) playing it. I'm liking it alot! That's mostly all from me. Thanks for your patience and understanding! I believe the next chapter I do will be District 2! Hopefully that one won't take nearly as long! **


	10. District 2 Reapings?

_POV - ? _

_Invictus Coliseum, District 2 _

_8:12AM, 3 day after the 98__th__ Hunger Games…_

It's a cool morning in District 2, only further emphasised by the chilly gazes being cast onto the cadets. No one dares utter a sound, the tension, the disappointment is palpable. District 2 had a poor showing. Objectively untrue, but undeniably poor to their standards. 5th and 9th are technically decent results, but for a District as goal-driven as 2?

Their perception of success has been warped under the expectations the Capitol has cast on them. 1st is really the only acceptable position for a District 2 tribute to rank in. The training, Invictus itself, reflects that.

One of the trainers walks forward and clears his throat before the podium. He remains perfectly stoic, perfectly disciplined as he takes a quick moment to stare over the trainees with a calculating eye.

"Now that our Mourning has subsided, we will initiate the selection, those who are called, step forward and meet your mentor," The man instructs.

As he finishes, 9 fellow trainers step forward, almost mechanically- like well oiled gears in a machine, all of their faces stony. Their poised demeanours can easily be seen as intimidating, their apparent indifference elevating the tension further, it certainly doesn't help that each one of them is a former Victor.

Quiet murmurs break out through the cadets, eager anticipation buzzing though the massive dome training field. The trainer clears his throat once again, promptly silencing them.

"Thank-you. As tradition mandates, we will elect 10 cadets, 5 males and females to be our Ace Class. You will be trained solely by one of our elite trainers, the Victors themselves," The man pauses to gesture towards the 9 lined trainers.

"After 11 months, the 10 of you will be evaluated before the Boule, where the cadet who scored the best will be given the glorious opportunity to represent the District in the 99th Hunger Games," he pauses again, this time to gauge the reactions.

He's left pleasantly surprised when not a single cadet cheers. The Selection has always been a serious event for the trainees. This, could be due to the fact that the Selection has developed a dual informal title, the Purge.

After the Selection ends, essentially all of the eldest class will be prohibited from returning. Hence the rather crude nickname, Purge. Not that the trainer truly cares what they think. His task is to train them. The Boule has already arranged all of the mentor-tribute duos, his job is to simply relay it.

The trainer won't deny that he's not looking forward to his though. Sure, he knows to keep things professional and not protest, but to mentor Cartwright of all people? The trainer wishes he could sigh at the moment, instead he compromises by glaring at some of the cadets and enjoying their flinches.

* * *

_POV – Remy Cartwright _

_11:24AM, 6 months after the 98__th__ Hunger Games… _

District 2 stares quietly at the large victor from 10. Despite his massive size, he looks like a leaf, waiting for the wind to take him away. His face looks sunken and the victor keeps on rubbing his stomach as if he has an itch there.

Remy can suspect why though. Looking over the victor, he concludes one thing. He could take him.

Not to be pretentious or arrogant, but Oman was simply an inferior tribute, it was only his surprising knowledge in survival skills that had him selected, something Remy truly laments. This is his second time being one of the 10 from the Selection. His first time he had the horrifying misfortune of being mentored under Spartacus.

Just the sheer memory brings a groan of frustration. That man couldn't teach a fish to swim if his life depended on it. Still, being able to pick the brains of such a prolific Victor was a small compromise. At the very least, this year, under the tutelage of Memnon, he stands a far better chance of at least receiving the tasks he needs to complete in a manner that's coherent for normal humans to understand.

Seriously, the fact Spartacus speaks more in sounds when trying to explain something was a positively dreadful experience. Remy sighs and shakes his head. He watches as the newest Victor stammers through his speech. He's soon escorted back into the City Hall after little fanfare. He didn't kill any of District 2 tributes, so he's received with mostly indifference.

The crowd soon disperses, going through the market along the way. Remy uses it as a cover to pick things from stands as he sees fit. Some fruit to snack on some shiny trinkets that might sell good and a pair of socks just cause they were in reach. A good haul for something entirely spontaneous.

After his little treasure hunt, he ends up going back to the Academy. As a Selected, he has special training and as such, the schedule is always different and depends on when his mentor wants to train him. That being said, if a trainer neglects to spend time with their tribute, the Boule will breath down their necks… and probably have them too.

He enters the massive training facility and instantly zeroes his gaze on his tall dark-skinned trainer, he looks, well, not livid. But definitely not happy. Disappointed? Remy shrugs as he walks up to the man.

"Yo," He says, slipping his hands behind his head as he smirks at the man.

"Skipping again?"

"Wouldn't call it skipping, just wanted to see what the Victor looked like, nothing too serious," He dismisses with a shrug.

"… I guess that's about what I expected," his mentor concedes with a tired sigh.

Remy grins at him, "So then, what we got for today?"

"Hand-to-hand."

Remy raises an eyebrow, it's his mentor's specialty, and something that Remy has explicitly shown little interest for.

"Feeling vindictive, are we?" He concludes, smirking as a result.

"Yes. You saw right through me," His mentor sarcastically deadpans, "now put the gloves on so I can beat the ever living shit out of you," he finishes with a dangerous edge to his tone.

Remy takes the threat in stride, not feeling at all that bothered by it. Memnon won his games by bashing in some kid's face in, using a rock too. It was a gruesome kill, and perhaps the reason why his mentor now seems so… grizzled. Then again, a lot of Victors from 2 end up rather jaded. It's almost as if they don't even know what they're getting involved in.

Remy tightens the gloves and turns to face his mentor only to hastily duck under a swift jab. He skips backing, creating space and subsequently dodging his mentor's follow up punch.

"A cheap shot!? You must really be pissed!"

"As if a tribute would alert you to their intentions," His mentor says, rolling his eyes but at the very least relenting on his pursuit.

Memnon falls into a stance and waits, his dark brown eyes furrowing with an unflinching gaze. Remy in turn does some light stretches, he decides to yawn too, and relishing in the vicious scowl his mentor shoots him.

"Okay, I'm ready to have, what was it? 'the ever living shit out of me' kicked? Yeah, let-" He ducks the bullet punch aiming to crunch his nose, then tucks into a roll before springing into the air and round house kicking his mentor.

Memnon blocks the blow before latching onto the leg, rooting Remy in place, He doesn't panic, instead he leaps off his other leg and thrusts it into his mentor's chest.

Memnon loses his grip and drops Remy unceremoniously onto the ground. The cadet groans slightly before needing to roll away from a drop kick.

He pushes himself onto a knee before lunging backwards creating more space again. The man's fast, nimble even. He doesn't use too many feints though, something Remy personally enjoys using.

"Come now, if all you do is run away, you'll start to make me look incompetent," Memnon says.

Remy grins, the verbal jab rolling off him harmlessly, "Alright old man, I was just giving you a handicap is all."

"I'm really going to enjoy beating the crap out of you."

"Growing senile? I'm pretty sure it was shit, the first time."

Memnon growls and dashes towards him, Remy decides to mirror him and the two crash into each other in a flurry of fists and kicks.

* * *

_7:39PM, 2 month before the 99__th__ Hunger Games…_

_POV – Kyra Boldar_

"Is something troubling you Kyra?"

She blinks, and turns to face her mentor. The woman looks at her with concern but also equal parts confusion. Even after all this time, Miss Andrzejewski still can't grasp the concept that Kyra simply prefers to be quiet and look at the scenery around her.

The training session for the day just concluded, and after using the facility's showers to clean up, both agreed to get some drinks. After working with Miss Andrzejewski for nearly a year, she can safely say that she respects and looks up to the woman. She's been a trainer at Invictus for nearly 18 years, and the official Hunger Games mentor for 14.

Some people in the District would say being the mentor for that long is a sign of incompetence, due to how the most recent Victor must always become the mentor until a new one can replace them. However, to Kyra, it just means the woman exudes experience. She's spent 14 years working with sponsors, establishing connections and learning through the trial of fire, what it takes to shape a Victor. Kyra's honoured to work with the woman.

"Kyra?"

"Hmm? O-oh, no. Sorry, nothing is troubling me at all, Miss-"

"Portia," She chides gently.

Kyra ducks her head, hiding her embarrassment, "r-right… sorry."

"… you're not going to say my name, are you?" The woman asks.

Kyra averts her gaze, looking out the window again. She brings the mug to her mouth, ignoring the shake as the mug wobbles in her hands. Portia sighs, and takes the silence to take a sip from her iced drink.

"So then, how is your family, are they well?"

"Ah… uh, yes."

"…"

"…"

"I see… what about your friends, are they impressed with you being one of the Selected?"

"Yes."

"…"

Kyra takes another zip from her mug as her gaze is attracted to one of the paintings in the café. Portia sighs again, placing her hand across her face in exasperation. Kyra blinks and looks oddly at her mentor.

"This… this is training, Kyra," Portia discloses.

Kyra tilts her head, furrowing her brows as she processes the words, after doing so, the furrow remains as she confusedly stares at Portia.

"For the interview, it's important to sell a good first impression," Portia eventually explains.

Kyra frowns at the remark, but at the very least she gets it, "I'm… well, I don't think I need to focus on that," she explains softly.

"Of course not, it's why it's not something we've focused on. However, one-word answers in any interview is a fast way to lose sponsors."

Kyra fidgets in her seat. She wants to protest but can't bring herself to voice her complaints. She settles for looking uncomfortable.

"We can pick this up at another time, Kyra. Just promise me you'll make an effort the next time I simulate an interview with you," her mentor says gently.

Kyra reluctantly nods, then hastily looks up to her mentor with widen eyes, "next time?"

Portia smiles sweetly, it doesn't reach her eyes, "Of course, we have a month left before the Boule judges the Selected. I will make sure you are proficient in every aspect. Including the interviews."

Kyra opens her mouth, feeling much more confident in her desire to protest, only to snap her mouth shut as she sees her mentor narrow her own eyes disapprovingly. She lowers her head in defeat.

"Yes, Miss Andrzejewski."

"… you did that on purpose, didn't you?"

Kyra firmly fixes her gaze onto her mug. Despite that, she allows a small smile; she can practically hear the pout coming from her mentor's voice. A small moral win, she'd take it.

* * *

_10:45AM, 1 Month before the 99 Hunger Games…_

_POV – Remy Cartwright_

Remy stands in a line along with his fellow Selected. The stiff military posture is killing him, just how long is he supposed to stand like this? He'd kill to loosen it up even slightly. But even so, he wouldn't dare tempt the Boule's ire. They're essentially the true government that runs District 2.

Slighting them- and something as minuscule as faltering in one's posture would slight them, would ultimately ruin the rest of his life. He like to tempt authority and bend the rules, but he knows what's beyond his own capabilities.

Perhaps when he's Victor. They let Spartacus do whatever the hell that man wants, so it's safe to assume the same liberties would extend to him. Something to look forward to. As such, Remy remains perfectly straight.

He isn't feeling nervous, unlike the rest of his peers. This isn't his first time standing before the Boule. He lost out due to being paired with Spartacus, but even then, he was also a year younger, something the Boule would have considered.

This year though? There's little competition. His fellow male Selected are simply not good enough. Throughout the year, there have been sanctioned spars between Selected, and a score was kept. A spar per month for 8 months, putting Remy as the undisputed victor with a handsome 8-0 record.

Of course, this isn't the only factor that plays into deciding who becomes the tribute. There are countless tests taken throughout the year. Combat is an obvious prerequisite. But, physical endurance, speed, survivability, anything one can think of that may benefit a tribute in the Games, has been implemented over time.

Even the aspects some would deem unworthy, or certainly not interesting enough like how to make a fire, how to conduct an interview and other dull things like that. Remy doesn't dominant in those fields as much as he does combat. But, he manages. It's graded weight is lesser to combat too, so there isn't much incentive to improve on it when he's already the overwhelming superior fighter.

He knows the basics, and Memnon made sure he remembered, he has to begrudgingly admit, for a Victor who pales in comparison to the likes of Spartacus or Alistar, Memnon still definitely deserves his title.

"Remy Cartwright, step forward," One of the members of the Boule says.

Remy does so, making sure not to falter in his posture. He's been here before, he knows what comes next. The Boule will give their analysis of him, their report and findings. Remy is to listen, unflinchingly and not show emotion. Even this, is a test. A tribute, and future Victor of 2 must show a level of poise about them, they represent the district as a whole, and must cement the perception of superior to all districts, even their alleged allies.

"-An exceptionally flawless sparring score. However, your mentor has made mention of an abrasive and childish demeanour."

Remy's mouth thins, even more so than it already was. He wants to turn and give Memnon the stink eye, but that's grounds for disqualification. Truthfully, he supposes that 'abrasive and childish' would be a generous summarization of his personality.

"Your survival skills leave much to be desired, ranking you 4th out of the Selected," another member says, looking from one file.

4th? That's better than he expected, fully anticipating he'd rock bottom of the table again.

"Yes, He has his flaws, but do they undermine his assets?" Another poses.

Remy nearly nods in agreement but bites his tongue in time to reel in any instinctive gestures. The Boule continues to discuss his performance for a few more minutes, completely ignoring his existence until they finally tell him to step back in line.

Remy bows and complies. He watches with growing impatience as the Boule discusses the rest of his fellow Selected, his disinterest festering. Eventually, the Boule shifts their focus to the girls, and Remy becomes acutely aware that there's easily still another hour left before he's even allowed to leave.

He stares to the ceiling, willing the seconds to move faster. The choice is obvious, why can't they just let him know he's in and let him leave?

* * *

_1:09PM, 3 Weeks before the Hunger Games..._

_POV – Kyra Boldar_

Kyra stretches, letting the stiffness in her joints ebb away. She sighs in satisfaction and finds herself sinking back into the couch. Before she can close her eyes, she hears some knocking coming from the entrance. It startles her out of her sleepy state.

She turns to face the front door, looking over her shoulder. She tilts her head to the side as she slowly makes her way to the front.

She peers through the glass and smiles softly when she sees Carson and Ruby. Her two best and closest friends. She opens the door and greets them warmly.

"As shocking as this may be, not too much of a social call. Here," Carson says, handing an envelope to Kyra.

She's immediately reeling, nerves striking her as she looks at the white envelope being thrust into her hands. She's definitely not ready for this!

"I'll understand if you don't want us here when you're opening it," Ruby starts, stroking her friends' shoulder reassuringly.

It does calm Kyra a bit, and she looks to her friend with a fond smile, "no, I'd prefer if you stayed actually, both of you," she finishes turning to face an already retreating Carson.

"Oh? Is my charm fin-"

"No."

"Not a chance."

"So stingy…" Carson says with a grin as he follows the two girls through the door.

The three of them sit on the couch, one on each side of Kyra, she nods her thanks to both of them before taking a deep breath. Her eyes flicker to the insignia of the Boule. It's stamped onto the corner of the envelope, signifying its authenticity.

Kyra can't believe it's through letter. Whether she's a tribute for the games or not, it'll all be dictated by this one single sheet of paper! Completely crazy if you ask her, although, she finds that she's quite grateful for that all things considered. If she had to spent even a second longer in front of the Boule she fears she might have passed out. The Boule is beyond stifling, and incredibly intimidating.

"It really is a nice envelope, but, let's actually look at what's inside of it, yeah?" Carson teases lightly,

Kyra ducks her head a bit bashfully but nods, she peels it open and pulls out a folded letter. Mechanically, she unfolds it and inches her face a little closer, her two friends instinctively do the same.

_Kyra Boldar, _

_You have been selected to represent District 2 in the upcoming Hunger Games. Report to Invictus on __Sunday, October 1__st__. Further instructions will be given to you. Failure to arrive on a timely schedule will be grounds for instant revocation of your acceptance. Congratulations, may you bring honour and glory to District 2. _

_The Boule, Headmasters of Invictus Academy. _

"Oh look, you're accepted," Carson points out. Ruby quickly clutches her friend in a hug, leaving a stunned yet thoroughly relieved Kyra in her wake.

"Yeah… yo- you're right," Kyra says numbly.

She's accepted, she's the chosen Tribute for District 2, it feels like a dream. It's not that she's so uncertain of her skills. She knows she deserves it. She's put in the effort for 8 years now, she's excelled in combat and forced herself to at least become competent in survival. Sure, her socialization struggles a bit, but that's rather common for District 2 as a whole, so she doesn't see why she should be bothered by it.

Overall, Kyra feels accomplished with what she's managed to get so far. However, she knows it's just the beginning, and as such becomes quiet as her two friends congratulate her. It'd be dumb to think that she should simply settle with just being allowed to go to the Games.

* * *

**AN: 'Hopefully it won't take nearly as long' Did I jinx myself? Am I an idiot? These are questions I wish to have answers to! That aside, I'm not dropping this story, I'm just a really slow writer mixed with my lack of schedule or foresight and add a pinch of 'holy University is nothing like High-School, huh?'.**

**I hope I didn't lose too many of you with my abysmal update schedule!**


	11. District 7 & 9 Reapings

_7:04AM, District 9, Day of the Reaping…_

_POV - Sela Fields_

District 9 is full of fields, divided by their selected yield and harvesting periods. The majority of said fields are owned by Capitol citizens and their respective District 9 proxies. After all, no Capitol citizen in their right mind would actually settle in a lower district. It's much simpler to have residents of 9 take care of their land, giving them the right to live and earn some of the money themselves.

It's easily one of the greatest examples of Capitol and District mutual benefit. A lot of the people from 9 are employed, and although wages are low, hours long and the job taxing. It helps plenty to put food on the plate and a roof over one's head.

District 9 is relatively simple, and one could easily argue it's forgettable when compared to the glamourous 1, or seaside 4. That would be ideal even. A lower district never benefits from being in the spotlight anyways. Of course, things can never be so simple. 9's all the talk in recent news. With the death of Rye. 9 No longer has a living Victor.

Rye's games were roughly 45 years ago, firmly cementing District 9 in the longest losing spree in Panem history. And now that he's dead, there isn't a single living mentor for District 9 to use, putting them at an immense disadvantage come the next Games.

It's these thoughts that cause Sela to hesitate, her hands freezing in front of the stalk. She quickly shakes her head and continues picking corn. Despite her efforts to drop it, her mind continues to whisper the devastating effect it has on 9. How it cripples this year's tributes and countless more to come. How the district will continue to lose, continue to suffer. Rye's death is nothing but juicy gossip for those in the Capitol, but for the people here? It's a heavy blow to the overall morale.

She's acutely aware of how every passing year people become more and more distant. Her usual cheer finding itself further out of place. Even now she curses how solemn today has her. She shuts her eyes and takes a steadying breath. She wills the unpleasant thoughts away, focusing rather on her work.

For every piece of corn she picks, it's one more contribution to her district. The thought alone motivates her plenty and she continues contently working.

* * *

_9:19am_

_POV – Harvest Henderson_

"Henderson, what's your ass still doing here?"

Harvest looks up from his bin, his hazel eyes going wide at the sudden outburst. He quickly recovers and his face falls back into an impassive one. He stands up and dusts himself. He looks at his fellow coworker with a quirked eyebrow

"Working… well, I was," Harvest says lamely, looking to his now empty hands.

"I get that kid, but youths were supposed to leave at 9. Reapings and all."

Harvest remains silent, processing the information futilely before it finally clicks that he, himself, is still a youth and that his coworker was referring to him as such.

"Ah, I see. Uh…"

"You should be goin', Dekkerman probably thinks you've left already," The older man waves off, ignoring Harvest's awkward stammering.

"I understand, thank-you very much sir," Harvest says, bowing slightly before attempting to navigate through the thick fields.

Harvest jogs down one of the rows before getting onto the main road, from there it's a rough 30 minutes back home and maybe another 40 or so getting to the town square. Even if that time seems long, it's only thanks to the fact that he works so close to the town square that he can have the chance to work during the morning at all.

Most youth farmers who work near the borders of 9 don't have the privilege of working the mornings on the reaping, as that time is more importantly used to arrive to the town square on schedule. As grueling as the work is, Harvest would take it over needing to attend the reapings any day of the week if he could.

He sighs at the thought, no point entertaining hopeless fantasies. He eventually makes his way back to town and heads towards his home. His parents aren't in, something he expected. They were too busy working, and frankly, would be caught dead before ever attending another reaping. They haven't since Gwenith's.

Harvest frowns at the thought, and curses how much even thinking of her name still manages to devastate him. It's been 7 years since his older sister died in the Games. It's been 7 years since he's truly felt connected with his family. With her death came an unrecoverable distance established with his parents. Almost as if they feared the same fate befalling him.

Harvest isn't entirely sure who he could resent for that. His sister for not being able to overpower the bulky muttation that mauled her, or his parents for having their emotional states unrecognizably shattered. It feels too selfish for him to decide.

He doesn't bother musing over the troubling thoughts and instead slips into something more presentable than dirt smeared work clothes. He quietly combs his hair before putting it in a small manbun at the back. After cleaning himself up, he makes his way out the door and towards the town square.

Harvest is used to this routine as he's done it alone ever since his first year. He almost missed the reaping actually, being far too dependent on his parents at the time. It's a mistake he hasn't repeated. He finds himself being quite self-sufficient ever since. He cooks for himself and even had to find ways to get his own schooling done. In between all of his working that is. It wasn't easy, but he's adapted.

It with those thoughts that he finally files in line, and goes through the painstaking process of waiting for Peacekeepers to take a sample of his blood. Funnily enough, it's always these moments that help Harvest calm down the most.

Usually, when he has time alone to think is when he feels the most comfortable. Instead of building anxiety, he has an almost eerie calm. There's always the fear of being picked, but leading up to it, Harvest is practically indifferent.

It's a skill he's developed, or perhaps had forced upon him. Regardless, it has its benefits, one he's reaping now.

The peacekeeper lazily waves him forward. Harvest obliges and sticks his finger out for the machine. It's a harmless prickle and before long he's listening to instructions that send him near the front. He shuffles awkwardly before noticing someone waving him over. He squints at the gesture before recognizing it as his friend, Emmer.

Harvest greets him as he falls into line with the rest of the 17 year olds.

"Hey man, how you doing?" Emmer asks, rubbing his arm as he fidgets in place.

"I'm doing alright. Thank-you for asking. How about you?" Harvest says robotically.

"Heh, yeah if I didn't know any better, I'd say that's your nerves talking."

"Did I say something wrong?" Harvest asks.

"Nah, you're good. Just the way you say it is weird again."

"I see. Please accept my apology."

Emmer laughs, causing Harvest to smile in return. He isn't sure how exactly he managed to do that, but if Emmer's feeling slightly better about being here, than surely Harvest did something right, right?

* * *

_9:33AM, District 7, Day of the Reapings… _

_POV – Locust Sequoia_

He brings his axe up, suspending it just slightly above his head, as if time itself freezes before bringing it down with a crack like thunder. It cleaves the firewood in half, the pieces flying off the stump and falling to the ground.

Locust ignores it in favour of reaching for another piece of the pile. He mechanically places it on the trunk and continues the monotonous process. The sound of his maul splitting the wood echoes, and he eventually stirs his drunken father awake.

The older Sequoia slowly sits forward, his eyes foggy and still plagued with sleep.

"Y-you're too damn loud," the man complains from on top of the roof, only to wince at his own volume.

Locust turns to look up to the man with tired but otherwise unflinching icy blue eyes. The two men stare at one another until finally his father grumbles in frustration. The older man ultimately slumps back down and tries to sleep again. Why he decided to sleep on the roof when he gets completely smashed is something Locust can't bring himself to care about.

It's not going to stop him from doing his chores though, and with that thought finished, he slams his maul down onto some more wood again.

Locust gets absorbed in his work. It's tasks like these that he takes enjoyment out of the most. The ability to simply let his mind idle, let his body go through the motions, it's relaxing. He enjoys the little things.

He brings the maul up again, but lets it hang a little longer. His eyes narrow, and he casts his gaze to the side. Standing there is a short man wearing an entirely out of place suit.

"What do you want?" Locust asks, dropping the axe to a more slanted angle.

"Oh, there's no doubt about it. Those tattoos, that massive beard, and your bear like stature! You most definitely are Locust," The man says gesturing to each respective observation with outstretched hands.

Locust doesn't dignify the man with a response, and instead turns to face the firewood, dismissing the man entirely.

"Come now, le-" the man flinches as the axe is brought down onto the wood.

The axe cleaves straight down the middle, embedding itself deeply into the trunk, with a frustrated growl, Locust turns and advances towards the man with a deepening scowl, "what, do you want?"

"Locust I have a proposition for you."

Locust stops in place, and remains silent, he narrows his eyes as if prompting for an elaboration.

He receives it, "We would like for you to volunteer for these Games. We'll properly incentivize you to do so. Four bags of flour per family member."

Locust's brain momentarily stalls, that's a lot of flour. Between him, his useless father and siblings, that's 24 bags. It would last them. Problem is, his other job brings in plenty of the cash. He doesn't trust any of his siblings to do it, they're not ready. If he isn't there to supply Ash, then the income of his family would drop immensely. Not to mention he tends to hunt in these woods. He gets his family some meat that they normally can't have otherwise. Locust feels like he can better serve his obligation to his family through his current actions rather than selling himself to the Games.

"Your hesitation is troublesome. We have another incentive lined up for you. You'll see it at the reaping. All you have to do is volunteer, we'll consider that as you accepting our offer."

'We'. He said it twice now. It gives Locust the impression that this isn't just someone trying to take the piss with him. Very few wish to interact with him at all. His beard, his facial tattoos and scars give the impression of someone far too imposing.

Sure, it's clear to him that he's scaring this man by his presence alone. But it isn't enough to convince the man to leave. Why does the man want him to volunteer? Or rather, why do 'they' want him to?

Locust was never a deep thinker. He's already running himself in circles just trying to understand. Instead of trying to come up with his own conclusions however, he concludes to simply ask. Almost as If relieved from an entrancing spell, the large teen looks up and scans his surroundings, only to see that he is all alone in front of his porch. Well sort of, his drunken pass out dad is still hanging from the roof after all.

* * *

_9:57AM_

_POV – Hazel Redford_

It's rare for all of the Redford's to gather for breakfast. Hazel can count the annual times on a single hand. Oakley's birthday, hers and the reaping. Two of those events are considerably more enjoyable than the last. But, she won't let the reapings ruin a wonderful time with her family.

After all, Oakley managed just fine. There's nothing to assume she won't either. It's her first year to boot! Her family doesn't even need to take out tesserae. They aren't wealthy per say, but her mom works for the mayor, and her dad supervises a whole slew of lumberjacks. So, to say they were poor just wouldn't be true.

It's why that despite it being her first ever reaping, she doesn't find herself all that scared. She looks over the table, seeing her brother maul the pancakes with a feral viciousness akin to a rabid raccoon. Her mom looks on proudly, satisfied her meal is being so deeply enjoyed and her dad, although still pale and sickly, is laughing rambunctiously.

If it weren't for the reapings, she would never have this chance, not for a few more months. It's a compromise she's willing to make. She rarely gets to be this happy, to feel this close with her family.

"Hazel, are you okay? You aren't eating your pancakes," Her mother asks, worry etching itself over her face.

"What? Hazel that's blasphemous, pass them over if you aren't up for it," Oakley comments a little too quickly.

"No way! Mom's pancakes are delish," She responds, protectively covering her plate, she giggles at the comical pout he makes.

"Then you better eat them, if you make those pancakes cold… I'll never forgive you," Oakley says with feigned seriousness.

"Oakley, I hope you aren't going to be this energetic during the reapings," Her dad chides with a smile.

He raises his hands in surrender with a smile of his own. Said smile quickly leaves and a somber expression runs across his features.

"Dad, I'm going to be heading into work after breakfast," He says abruptly.

The dynamic of the table takes a tense edge, her dad looking almost scandalized at the remark, a frown quickly mares his face

"What do you mean?" he asks tensely.

"Dad, come on, you know we need this," Oakley explains.

"No, we don't."

"Yes we do, you need this, treatment isn't cheap, we need every penny we-"

"Oakley," his dad starts tiredly, his anger dissipating into disappointment, "please be here for your sister."

Her brother hesitates, and his concern betrays him as his eyes cast towards her. Her throat constricts, and for once it's not due to the phantom pains she's so familiar with. She doesn't know what to say, what to do in this situation. She wants her brother to be there for her, it's selfish. She knows that. But at the same time, she wants her dad to get better.

His cancer is festering, it's eating away at him, making her dad weaker everyday. Capitol treatment can help alleviate the problems, most of the time it can get rid of it entirely. But, the costs. They're steep. Far too steep for the middle-class household she finds herself in.

"You don't mind right Hazel? I'll make It up to you tonight, ice-cream, on me, your favourite kind."

"Don't try to bribe your sister Oakley," Her mom adds in exasperatedly.

"I'm not bribing her," he refutes weakly.

Hazel giggles at the antics, and ultimately crumbles to her brother's pleas. She nods her head very subtly before picking up the pace and showing her visible approval.

"Thanks Haze, see? She's fine with it. Oh, all the ice cream you can have, on me. You'll explode by the time we're done," Oakley says, shifting his gaze from side to side, from Hazel to her dad than back to her.

Hazel smiles softly at the imagery of an ice-cream induced coma. From her peripheral, she sees her dad sag tiredly, causing Hazel to shrink in herself. She didn't want to disappoint her dad, but he needs the treatment. So, if all she would get is breakfast and ice-cream. Then she would take it. It's more than enough for her. She's just happy to see her family all together for once.

* * *

_District 9, 10:45AM_

_POV – Sela Fields_

Sela, Maisy and several other 'youths' in her field were told to leave at 9. Knowing it futile to argue, she quickly abides. Not before picking a few more cobs of corn. But ultimately, she was told to leave. The two walked in content silence up until the branched off to their separate streets.

By then, it was a simple process of finding her sister, Gaia and getting ready for the reaping. Afterwards, Sela and Gaia made their way to the square. The quietly waited in line before getting their fingers pricked. They shared a quick hug and words of encouragement before going to their respective age groups.

Thinking back on it, all of it was quite a blur for Sela. She didn't really talk much at all. It's almost startling how much Rye's death has shaken her. Even now, as the anthem plays, and she finds herself between her two friends, Poppy and Lee. She's still quiet, still fixated on the transpired events.

She can't help but feel nervous. If not for her, then the unfortunate soul to be reaped. Even as Poppy tries to quietly whisper into her ear, Sela hears none of it. White static noise. As the anthem ends and the mayor gives his speech, Sela is eventually forced to turn and face Poppy. The girl grabbing her face.

"Hey… I know it's the reapings and all, but you aren't usually this tense, even for them," her friend whispers, putting an emphasis on her final statement.

With the mayor's speech in the background, and the sea of children she finds herself in, it's the perfect cover to have these kinds of discreet conversations. Albeit, standing at her 5'7, it can be a bit tricky to remain inconspicuous. With that in mind, she ducks and leans into Poppy's ear.

"I'm fine. Just distracted."

"Oh I hear ya. This year is going to be especially interesting with Rye gone," Lee adds, practically leaning on top of Sela.

Sela smiles in return nodding with Lee's remark. She also does her best to put herself in front of Poppy's dirty glare. The two never did get along. With the reason stemming almost entirely from the fact that Poppy comes from a low-class family while Lee comes from a high-class.

The discrepancy between the two is insanely wide, whereas one needs to take out tesserae, the other has spent dinners with Capitolites. Lee is the example of mutual benefit Sela was thinking about, her family manages land Capitol citizens own. However, simply associating with Capitolites isn't enough to garner Poppy's ire. It really comes down to the fact that Lee has developed an acquired taste for the Games, finding them entertaining even.

Poppy finds it distasteful and ultimately dislikes the girl for it. Sela on the other hand, she doesn't fault people for their opinions or prejudices. A lot of them develop depending on the environment they were incubated in. It makes sense for Lee to like the Games, her family likes the Games, her family's wealth stems from the Games.

"No one asked yo-"

"Poppy, she isn't wrong. With Rye's passing, this year's tributes are going to have a rougher time," Sela placates.

The shorter girl deflates, having the metaphorical winds knocked from her sail. Sela smiles sheepishly and mouths an apology to which Poppy clicks her tongue in frustration, but ultimately drops the topic.

"I've kept you boys and girls waiting long enough, Shall I start the Reaping?" The escort, Aspasia asks.

Silence follows, but she takes it in stride, sashaying her hips as she makes her way to the girl's glass bowl. As if she were unveiling the bowl, she slowly raises her hand from the bottom to the top. She lowers her hand slowly into the bowl and dangles her fingers over the folded slips. All sense of showmanship is immediately destroyed as she lurches forward grabbing a fistful of slips.

She lets them all fall from her hand save for one and walks back to the mic.

"Our female tribute for the 99th Hunger Games is," She pauses, unfolds the slip and clears her throat all in a rushed sequence, "Sela Fields! Please come forward."

Sela reels when she hears her name, peeling her eyes off a still fuming Poppy up to the stage. Aspasia grins manically at her and waves her up. Sela masks her grimace with an awkward half-baked smile.

She looks to her sides, Poppy looks soul crushed while Lee whispers her some words of encouragement. Both of them glue their eyes to her, and many more do the same. She looks around her and sees countless others boring their eyes onto her.

They all stare at her, it's as if their form congeals and meshes into a grey haze of unflinching peering eyes. It feels as if she's shrinking under the scrutiny, or perhaps they simply feel bigger, growing larger as those eyes begin to loom over her. The weight suffocates her. Her chest tightens and beads of sweat slide down her forehead. She finds it increasingly harder to breathe, as if her throat is coiling around her windpipe.

She can sense it. She can fell the weight behind their gazes, the manic desperation behind their silent stare. District 9 is desperate for a victor.

Peacekeepers eventually get to her, clamping harshly down onto a respective arm each. They drag her all the way up the stage, she barely stays upright when they finally let her go.

Aspasia tries talking to her, but, she can't hear it. The only thing she can hear is the rationale her mind keeps trying to give her.

District 9 needs her. They need a victor, she needs to win for them. All of 9 needs her, depend on her now. She may have been unfortunate enough to be reaped. But, that doesn't mean she should deny 9 a proper chance of a victor.

To quit before starting would be simply deplorable.

"Miss Fields? Are you alright?" The escort asks, hesitance lacing her tone.

Sela snaps from her trance, and looks up to her escort. The purple haired woman's smile wavers and her eyes dart to the peacekeepers behind her.

Sela ducks her head apologetically, "I'm sorry- I'm fine. I'm sorry for bothering you," She rambles on.

The woman visibly straightens, and her large pearly white grin is back, "Splendid to hear Miss Fields!"

Aspasia gives her a very animated handshake before peeling off towards the male's bowl. She goes through the same process, grabbing a bunch of slips, letting them cascade down her fingers except for one and goes back to the microphone again.

She clears her throat a second time, "Harvest Henderson! Please come forward!"

Murmurs break out, they die just as quickly and Sela once again sees how everyone stares at the tribute. They stare at him with the same eyes, the same desperatation. It further cements her belief. It helps motivate her all the same. District 9 needs a victor. Whether it's her or him.

She looks to the tribute, Harvest. He walks up calmly, a blank slate for a face. He's hard to read, and a bit intimidating due to it. How can someone be so calm in this situation? Did he rationalize it like her?

She doesn't have the time to think much more of it, Aspasia is already clapping her hands rambunctiously. She gets the two tributes to shake hands. Although, an awkward handshake, Sela immediately notices the roughness of his palm, the kind one would have from working on the fields mercilessly. It's oddly soothing to learn, she finds.

The Reaping ends shortly after and she's escorted into the city hall. Her friends are the first to visit, all in a group. It pleases Sela to see Poppy not breathing down on Lee for once. She laments the circumstances, but smiles, nevertheless.

"That's a nice smile! You have to make good first impressions with the capitol people if you want sponsors," Lee instructs knowingly.

"Are you seriously on about that?" Poppy asks incredulously, a shrill anger in her tone.

Sela's smile quickly falls. So much for that. She raises her hands in a placating manner, "it's fine, that's sound advice, thank-you Lee."

"No worries, I'll be rooting for you," Lee says.

Sela nods. Rooting, not pitying, not despairing. Rooting. She much prefers it over the other options at least. It helps keep her calm, her eyes narrowing in focus. The district is rooting for her, she knows it. District 9 needs a victor.

"Thank-you, I'll do my best."

* * *

_12:34AM_

_POV – Harvest Henderson _

Emmer paces anxiously from one end of the room to the other. He runs a shaky hand through his long brown hair before wheeling on Harvest.

"This… this is bad."

Harvest, from his seat, nods his head in agreement.

"Like really bad, you… your odds are shit in there, you have a high chance of dying."

Harvest nods his head in agreement, again.

"Which is why I don't understand why you're so fucking calm!?"

Harvest sighs, "I know how bad my odds are. But crying over it, being panicked over it won't really improve my chances."

Emmer frowns and finally stops pacing. He compromises by plopping onto the armchair and starts massaging his temples.

"Sorry, I'm just freaking out man. I mean, damn. It's just such bullshit. First your sis-"

"I accept your apology," Harvest interrupts calmly.

"R-right, fuck. Sorry man. That was pretty damn stupid of me."

"That is okay. We all make mistakes," Harvest brushes aside easily.

Emmer nods and is soon escorted out of the room. Harvest remains seated, and finds his mind wandering back to Gwenith.

She was 13 when she was reaped. And although she survived the bloodbath, she didn't really stand much of a chance against the horrible creatures in that arena. The arenas were especially bad during that time period. A stint of very Mutt heavy arenas that killed almost as much as the tributes did. It was sickening. Being forced to watch his older, reliable sister die, it utterly destroyed his parents. He himself was left hollow.

And now, he's going to the Games too. Emmer's right, these odds really are shit. Harvest rests his head against the soft cushion and sighs. Despite his calm exterior, he's beyond scared. He likes to think his odds of winning are just as even as everyone's. But that's just objectively false. The Careers always have an advantage. And District 9 is coming into this year with a clear disadvantage.

After some time, the door opens, prompting for Harvest to stand from the armchair. He's half hoping to see his parents. Said hope dies a brutal death as he sees a pair of peacekeepers file into the room.

"Visitations have finished, you'll be escorted to the station now," One says from behind his helmet.

Harvest allows dissatisfaction to mare his face for a second before he erases it. He nods his head and silently marches out. His parents don't go the reapings anymore. They couldn't have known he was reaped. He tries to rationalize their absence. It even makes sense. But, it undeniably devastates him all the same.

In all honesty, his parents died when Gwenith did. And now, he's soon to join her.

* * *

_District 7, 11:06AM _

_POV – Locust Sequoia _

Locust looks on in disinterest as the mayor explains why the districts were foolhardy. It's the same spiel every year, so he can't be bothered to dignify it with his attention. He allows his mind to wander back to a few hours ago.

When the man in the suit gave him the deal. Willingly participate in the Hunger Games. It's a ridiculous offer. But his family is large, and the reward for merely volunteering is enticing. He wouldn't even indulge the idea if he wasn't strong enough.

Locust looks himself over, assured that his 6'8 stature undoubtedly more than compensates for his lack of formal training. He's physically fit as well, killing someone with his bare hands alone doesn't seem entirely out of question.

The act of killing doesn't bother him either. It hasn't before, it won't start to. His odds of winning these games are high, he knows it. So does the man in the suit too.

The mayor clears his throat, drawing Locust's attention momentarily, the large teen pivots his gaze upwards to the massive projectors playing the usual propaganda. He quietly goes back to stroking his tangled beard, dismissing the video entirely.

Assuming the man is wealthy and can afford to pay him the reward. Then, that's already a handsome incentive. It's outlandish the amount he was willing to give him. It leaves Locust skeptical. He isn't so gullible as to accept an offer at face value, especially with the kinds of stakes and promises in play.

But, he won't deny that he is at least a bit tempted. He never considered volunteering for the Games, seeing as their purpose is to punish the districts. It didn't occur to him that most victors end up being incredibly wealthy and self-sustaining.

Locust could volunteer, and could win. That would secure his family's stability. Hell, they could even ditch his useless father and live up in the Victor's Village. The only thing he'd have to worry about is winning.

Outlasting 23 other children. Locust can't help but feel he holds an edge. None are built like him. Both physically towering and mentally impervious. Locust is strong, he can win.

The clank of heels alerts him to the escort on stage. He squints his eyes, trying to recall her name futilely. He gives up after a few seconds. Her name doesn't matter anyways. Most of District 7 refers to her as 'Roadkill' due to the horrible combinations of furs she likes to amass on her person. Locust finds it considerably easier to memorize at least.

Roadkill walks to the bowl with a spring to her step. Locust won't deny that any ounce of nervousness he can possible feel during the reapings is at this very moment. His little sister just turned 14, she's the youngest of his family, and the only girl too. As such, he's protective of her. It's his duty as the only actual responsible adult figure in the house.

If she's reaped. There's nothing he can do, he can't truly protect her in the Games even if he decided to go. She just doesn't have the drive to survive the Games. And he's perfectly content with that. He dragged himself through dirt, blood and sweat to bring his family to where they are. He's had to do some objectively bad things, it's not something he'd want any of his siblings to go through if he could help it.

His brothers on the other hand. There's an easy solution. He can just volunteer if any one of them is picked. Well, only for this year that is. After that and he's simply going to be too old. The tesserae he's taking out will no longer apply either. That's something he didn't consider.

"Ladies and Gentleman, our female tribute for District 7 is," Roadkill pauses, and slowly peels the slip open, "Hazel Redford!"

Locust's interest quickly falls. It's not Hemlock, not his sister. He doesn't care who it is. He continues to look forward even after some of the guys in his line look back. The town square is full of murmurs, trying to pinpoint the unfortunate girl picked to go to the Games.

The murmurs quickly die out, and the silence in the town square is almost overbearing. It doesn't last, the loud whiny whimpers remind him of a wounded animal. It starts from the far back, and quickly grows into a full blown cry.

Peacekeepers rush down the stage and pass him. Even then, Locust doesn't look back. From what he hears, he already has a bit of an idea. Young girl reaped to die. As young as Hemlock, probably even younger.

He listens to the thump of boots over the gravel floor. He listens to it stop and the wails grow louder. He listens as the girl's cries die out in one final hoarse breath. And then, he sees a tiny ginger girl appear from his peripheral.

She listlessly drags her feet as she walks up to the stage, an escort party trailing behind her. She passes in front of Locust, and he quickly inspects her. She is tiny, definitely a 12 year old. Definitely a death sentence. Her spirit is crushed, well before any of the horrors could even start.

Roadkill obliviously tries to talk to her, which only prompts teary whimpering. Seemingly experienced in these kinds of situations, Roadkill takes the mic away from the girl's mouth, cutting off any of the sound from reaching the speakers.

"W-well then, onto the boys!" She says after taking a moment to flatten her furs.

The escort goes through the same spiel and before long finds herself in front of the mic again. Locust tunes out all of her showmanship and only focuses to when she's finally going to reveal the name.

"-Salix Cherry!"

Locust eyebrows raise, the only indication of his surprise. He was not expecting that. Salix is probably the only other person besides family or Ash that he regularly speaks to. A friend maybe. After all, only a friend would help out Locust's family as much as Salix did.

Salix looked after Locust's younger siblings when he was out, he even bailed him out of some dicey situations involving the peacekeepers. Locust is indebted to this guy, ridiculously so. Locust almost finds it humorous.

Except, he recalls what the man in the suit said.

"_-We have another incentive lined up for you. You'll see it at the reapings. All you have to do is volunteer, we'll consider that as you accepting our offer."_

Locust's eyes harden. Even assuming this is what the man meant. That means that said man has the power to rig the reapings. That's just… it's unfathomable.

Locust eyes shift to Salix. The teen seems resigned as he makes his way up to the stage. He at least looks dignified, not that Locust faults the little girl. Just walking up to the stage is more bravery than any child should need to muster.

He goes back to stroking his beard. Just who are these people? He's left clueless to how they can possibly orchestrate this. And ultimately, why? How much do they know about him? Why would they go to such lengths- lengths Locust didn't even know existed, just so that he would volunteer in the Games?

It just doesn't make sense.

"Are there any volunteers?" Roadkill asks.

Locust frowns, a usually ignored question now feels almost as if directed to him. He ponders it for a bit, and looks to Salix. They make eye-contact and the large teen can see the fear in Salix's eyes. He blinks tiredly before raising his arm above his head.

"Oh!? Are you volunteer-" Roadkill freezes, finally taking Locust's sheer size.

"Yes. I'm volunteering," He says.

"S-Splendid wonderful! Please come up," whatever hesitation she had quickly disappears and she continues with her act swimmingly.

Salix sags in relief, his legs nearly giving out if it weren't for the peacekeepers already dragging him off stage. Locust methodically makes his way up, waving away Salix's whispers of thanks as he walks up to the escort.

He's a foot taller than her, and easily two taller than his district partner. Locust shifts his gaze from the girl to the escort, his escort. She's staring almost hysterically at him with wide eyes, taking in his facial tattoos.

"What's your name, youn- uh, you are eligible yes?"

"Yes," Locust nods, "Locust Sequoia."

Roadkill spins on her heels, facing the crowd, "There you have it, Hazel Redford and Locust Sequoia are your tributes for the 99 Hunger Games!"

* * *

_12:12PM _

_POV – Hazel Redford_

The reaping ended quietly, and after shaking her district partner's enormous hand, she was ushered into the city hall, into a lonesome room. She stayed for all of a few seconds before breaking into tears again.

She's going to die, it's going to hurt, and she's never going to see her family again. Just the very thought makes her whimper. She doesn't want to die. Death terrifies her. Her near fatal accident let her know early on the fright of death, the fear of very nearly having the fire of life snuffed out.

But now? Here? It's as if said fire is being suffocated, buried under the weight of the horrors that are soon to come. Year after year, she's watched tributes die on the big screen. Through starvation, drowning, freezing, sickness, and most importantly, others.

She doesn't want to do this. It's going to hurt so much. Even if she survives the bloodbath- and the sheer thought of participating in one nearly breaks her again, if the bloodbath doesn't kill her, the environment most likely will.

Hazel paid attention, starvation and a lack of shelter usually ends up killing some of the unprepared tributes. Usually those who flee from the cornucopia. It's an unfair game, go in to die, or die days later. In both outcomes, death remains prevalent.

The doors burst open, and her mother quickly scoops her into a tight embrace. Hazel feels hot tears fall onto her cheek, and it causes her to break down into a crying fit again.

She isn't coming back. She's going to die. She knows it, and so does her mother. She feels another embrace, she's familiar with the touch, the gentle warmth of her father. She looks up to him with puffy eyes. His face is grim, but the despair is evident, it bleeds through his soft tremors.

She slowly tilts her head up, looking from her crying mother to her devastated father, "I love you," she whispers faintly.

Her mother sobs as she hoarsely repeats it, her father grips Hazel in an even fiercer hug. The three don't leave from their place, embracing one another until the peacekeepers arrive.

The guards move to quickly peel Hazel parents off her. She weakly flails one arm as the other desperately tries to remain latched onto her parents. She soon finds her resistance futile as she's taken from the room. She manages to glace at her parents through red watery eyes, and notices Oakley's absence.

It devastates her, knowing that as she's dragged away from her parent's final goodbyes, her family will never be whole again.

* * *

**AN: Okay District 7 and 9 done! Last two districts, 10 and 11! When I have that chapter out, I'll go into a bit more detail on what I have planned for future chapters. Until next time! PS. Reviews give me life! PSS. but if you don't want to I can't force you, or blame you. **


	12. District 10 & 11 Reapings

_6:07AM, District 10, Day of the Reapings..._

_POV – Cooper Dawson _

Cooper lays in bed, his closed eyes, quivering as his body struggles to find a comfortable spot. It doesn't take long before his eyes open, light brown eyes peer at the ceiling, the sleepiness hastily dissipating from them.

It takes only a few moments before Cooper finds himself completely awake. Which is unfortunate, because his body still aches of fatigue. He contemplates whether to get up or try to sleep but ultimately decides that the extra hour isn't going to mean much in the grand scheme of things. He'll already be up before his mom can wake him.

He might even have the chance to get some of the daily chores done too. Seeing as the pros outweigh the cons, Cooper slips out of bed and quietly heads downstairs. His mom usually wakes 30 minutes from now. She's a morning person and makes sure the rest of the family is as well, to some degree.

So, she usually wakes him up. It's a nice change of pace for him to skip that step, especially since she's quite fond of using pans as alarms and ripping the sheets off him as incentive. The more Cooper thinks of it, the better it is that he's up now.

He puts a light coat on and exits his house. The crisp coolness of the air tickles his skin, and his misty breath wafts in front of his nostrils. It doesn't deter him from setting out though, he walks down his porch and makes a sharp right turn, towards the kennels.

The building is adjacent to the house, just like with most families in 10, they tend to live close to their livestock. In this case, it might be better to call them merchandise though. The Dawson family doesn't deal with the conventional kinds of animals like cows, pigs or chickens.

Instead, they work with dogs. The Dawson family has been breeding dogs for as long as Cooper can remember, going back three, maybe even four generations according to his mother. They specialize in herding and guarding dogs.

This involves the necessary training too. It's a very precise and difficult job. Cooper isn't allowed to do any of the training, being too 'inexperienced' still. It's unfair, he thinks. But, when he's being compared to his mom, who's been training dogs her whole life. It begrudgingly makes sense.

He opens the door, and the smell of dogs immediately invades his nose. Cooper knows not to feed them so soon, so instead he decides to head towards the closet, and pick out some cleaning tools. There's no such thing as too clean as Cooper heads into a pup pen.

Those that are awake quickly waddle towards him, surrounding him on all ends. Cooper beams and quickly checks his surroundings. Once he confirms that he's the only person present, he crouches and indulges in petting the pups, a small smile spreading across his lips.

* * *

_9:01AM _

_POV – Destry Coleman_

For the tenth time, Destry sighs, torn between two clashing opinions. For one, she's happy to be home with her mother by her side and a few eggs and ham on the stove. For another, she's a bit bummed out that she can't go work at the stables for today, being a 'youth' and all. Ultimately, she has the reaping to thank and simultaneously woe.

She lets the eggs sit on the pan for a few more seconds before taking placing them on a plate. She cooks the ham for considerably longer before diving it evenly and bringing both plates into the dining room.

Her mom looks at her sweetly as she patiently waits at the table.

"you didn't have to cook toda-"

"Nope. I don't usually get to stay home, so there's no way I'm not taking the chance to cook for you," Destry swiftly denies, placing a steaming plate before her mother.

"…thank-you sweetie," her mom says after a moment, her smile never wavering.

Destry returns the smile with one of her own before sitting across from her mom. The two eat in silence. And although she finds it to be a comfortable one, Destry can't help but be reminded of the times when silence was the last thing one would find in her home.

Her father passed away four years ago. A barn fire, how it started, or how it managed to get so immensely out of control is something Destry never found out. No one did, and it remained a mystery according to the investigations that followed. It left Destry positively outraged.

Her mother, on the other hand, was destroyed. Life's simply never been the same since. Their sense of normalcy slowly shifted, and the joyous conversations devolved into somberness. Even now, Destry's mother still struggles with the absence of her husband.

The first few months were absolute hell, seeing her mother in so much pain, without being able to do anything to help. It was maddening. She wanted to pull out her hair, wanted to scream, wanted to curse the world for dealing her a shit hand.

But, at the end of the day, what would that even do? Her father will never come back. But, that doesn't mean she should let it anchor her in the roaring seas of depreciation. She simply can't. Her mom's much the same, Destry figures she gets her tenacity from her mother.

The brave face she always made sure to put up when Destry could see. It was a tremendous effort. Especially given how she did it mere months after grieving. Destry almost believed her mother managed to get over her despair.

If Destry was any denser, she may have concluded that. Their home is small, and the walls thinner. Even if the whimpering was barely a soft whisper over the sound of chirping crickets, it was still there, still boring down on Destry's conscious.

She swore then and there, to always be by her mother's side. To never let her suffer the same agony again.

"Destry, thank-you so much for the meal, it was very lovely," her mother says, snapping the freckled girl out of her thoughts.

She startles but quickly nods, "No worries, I'll cook for you any time I can."

* * *

_District 11, 9:32AM_

_POV – Adalyn Plumm_

Adalyn sits by the waste bucket, her chocolate brown eyes cast onto the garbage around her. She sighs exasperatedly, just because her job is to make sure the garbage finds itself in the bins, doesn't really excuse missing them altogether.

Before she can move, balled leaves bounce off against her chest, she freezes, her mouth thinning as her gaze rises.

"Ah, sorry miss," The man in question says, already on his way back to the forest.

Adalyn's brows narrow, and she can feel her blood simmering, her left eye twitches dangerously before she takes a long steadying breath. It's not worth it. She needs this job, she has too many warning as is. She really needs to get her anger under control. It's already been like the third time in this hour anyway. There's more to come no doubt.

After finishing her thoughts, she finds that her anger has dissipated, even if only marginally. It still helps at least. She doesn't want to get up from her spot and backhand the ever-living hell out of the idiot who can't eve-

Okay, so it didn't work as well as she hoped. But the man's already disappeared behind the foliage, so that train of thought is dead anyways. She reluctantly goes to clean up after the others. She truly hates this job. But ever since she's spotted a dead body in the forest, she's not been given permission to enter.

It's a stupid precaution. The person clearly died to tracker jackers. She'll never forget how swollen his face and limbs looked, the purple oozing from his pores. The very sight still comes to her in the form of nightmares. What's worst though, is the fact people became wary of her. It's entirely baseless! Did they think she's unleashed those demonic hornets on his poor soul? It just doesn't make any sense.

Adalyn finishes tidying up, and then smiles ruefully, giving it some more thought. Yeah, it's not entirely baseless. She did end up building a reputation of being… slightly hotheaded. But to kill someone? Well, she can't see it, but clearly that's simply not the impression she's given others.

"Hard at work, I see," Someone says.

Adalyn looks up and straightens her slouching posture, "Oh, hello, Gaven, here to pick me up?"

"Yep, figured if no one reminded you, you'd skip the reaping altogether," Gaven, her closest friend jokes.

He outstretches his hand and hoists her up from her sitting position. She dusts the grime and produce off her as best she can before answering, "well, you'd be right."

"Surprising revelation surprises no one. Still, I'd rather you didn't get lit up by the peacekeepers if I can help it."

"I'd rather I didn't get lit up too, so it works out," she jokes in return.

The two share a quick laugh before walking away from the treeline and fields.

* * *

_10:12AM _

_POV – Harrison Jones_

He checks his watch; sighs then place the book down. It's a good read, he finds. If he could, he'd spend the days away simply reading under a tree's shade. There is no greater past-time. Nurturing one's mind is paramount for success after all.

Harrison stands up, stretching his muscles while doing so. He hears his joints pop, and he let' out a sigh of relief. After limbering up, he heads home. As almost tradition mandates, he always let his great-grandma know he's leaving, give her a gentle hug and be on his way.

She's a fragile looking lady. But what age has done to her body it could never do to her mind. She's sharp and has ideals Harrison can only wish to emulate. It isn't a stretch at all to see her as his greatest inspiration. To live up to 106 years of age is already a tremendous feat, especially in a backwater district as poor as 11.

She's outlived the Hunger Games themselves and would tell stories of what life was like before. Before the games, before the Dark Days. It all seems like a fantasy, a dream. But it's a dream Harrison found himself being drawn to; one he wishes to fulfill. His great grandmother convinced him at a young age to consider going into politics. To rally the people.

It the kind of talk Harrison's parents would consistently attempt to deter him away from. It proved fruitless. As soon as he can, he'll try to get an office job. Build up some rapport and then strive to become the mayor. It may seem idealistic to think he can change anything. But, it'd be even more foolhardy to not try anything.

He climbs up the porch and fetches for his key. He quickly makes his way into the living room, where his great grandma sits on a rocking chair.

"Hello Gran," Harrison calls out to her.

The woman turns to him slowly, her eyes squinting, "Harrison. Are you… on your way out?"

"Yes Gran," he responds, he starts moving in to embrace her once he notices her outstretched arms.

"You've grown into such a big boy," she says, her bony finger caressing his smooth dark skin.

He grins coyishly, "you say that every year."

"I simply wish to remind myself. Just two more years and you'll be free."

Harrison's throat constricts. Free. A bitter fallacy given the nature, but still a form of freedom, nevertheless. Free from the prospects of death. Free to allow his ambition to flourish. In that sense, she's right. Two more years and he will be free. Free to pursue his goal, his dream.

"Yes, Gran, just two more years."

"Good. Good, you're destined for great things Harrison, don't forget that," she says, patting his shoulder before leaning back into the rocking chair.

"Of course, Gran, I won't disappoint," he says, his smile taking on a dangerous edge.

* * *

_District 10, 10:56AM _

_POV – Cooper Dawson_

Cooper fiddles with the collar of his dress shirt for what has to be the tenth time in the last 20 minutes. He chalks it up to the usual nerves that come every reaping. He hopes he'll grow out of it eventually.

He stands in line, waiting for his turn to have his name registered. It's not a particularly thrilling turn of events. But with Morris and Felino by his side. It's at the very least a tolerable wait.

"Alright, so listen here, I found this one place by the fence that seems to have this hole. So I checked it out-"

"That doesn't sound like a safe idea," Morris interrupts, rubbing his arm nervously.

"Oh you're right, it wasn't," Felino responds with a grin.

He lifts his pant leg to reveal some bloody bandages that wrap around almost the entirety of his lower right leg. Cooper and Morris give him a flat stare, which ultimately makes him look down a bit sheepishly.

"I guess that explains why you were limping," Cooper eventually says.

"You noticed that huh? Guilty," Felino finishes in a sing-song voice, "anyways, let me continue the story."

"S-sure." "I'm all ears."

"Okay, so I went down this hole, and well, I fell. But, it led to this sweet looking cave."

"How did you get out?" Morris asks, engrossed in the story.

"I kinda tumbled down the hole, I could crawl up. But I decided to check the place out a bit. See, there was a breeze going, and it wasn't completely dark. So, it had me thinking, is there another entrance?"

"Okay, that makes sense, guess when you fell was when you hurt your leg?" Cooper adds.

"Yeah, but I didn't notice, too excited, ya know? Anyways, I was right, I found a small opening not too far away and it led into the forest."

Both teens looked at him with awe. 10 didn't have any forests within its perimeters, the only forest present being the one that lined the northern part of the fence. Specifically, outside of it.

"Are you serious?" Morris whispers, suddenly realizing that they were close to other peacekeepers and people.

"Yeah, but that's not even the best part. I ventured a bit, not too far, I promise!" Felino quickly rectifies seeing the disappointed stares, 'but far enough. And I ended up hearing some shouting. It got me curious so I started to sneak closer and closer. And then, in the distance, I saw it."

He stops, looking at his two friends expectantly. They stare at him with rapt attention, "don't stop, what did you see?" Morris eggs him on.

"So I snuck into a bush and peeked, I saw peacekeepers by the look of things, they were, I dunno, 25, maybe 30 feet away? Hard to tell with all the trees in the way too. It looked like they were too busy distracted by something. That something, being a tree."

"A tree doesn't sound nearly as surprising as I thought," Morris says, deflated.

"You'd think that, but it was moving."

The two of them look at Felino with blank stares again. The boy in question is oblivious to it, too busy wiping his nose with a pleased grin.

"Shoulda known you were pulling my leg," Morris says tiredly.

"Wha- hey, I'm serious! I really saw it, the tree moved, it had legs and everything!"

"Trees don't have legs."

"Well, it looked like a tree, and it was walking, slowly too!"

Cooper watches the back and forth between his two friends. He believes Felino did find an entrance into the forest. But moving trees? Sounds kinda silly to him. Why would peacekeepers even be out there? Must have been the breeze he concludes.

"Arrgh, fine, I'll show you, after reapings, come and we can check it out."

Cooper clues into the conversation again, "sorry, can't. I'm going to be helping with the dogs after reapings."

"Dang, guess I shoulda known? When will you be free?"

"I dunno, maybe after 6, 7?"

"It might not be there by then!" Felino complains drooping his shoulders.

"Hey, quit holding the line and come forward," A peacekeeper shouts, beckoning the group forward with his hand.

"This isn't over, we'll talk about this after the reapings, got it?" Felino says before doing as instructed.

Cooper watches as Morris soon follows, and then he too gets his finger prickled. He joins with Felino quickly enough and the two share a quick goodbye with Morris, who goes and joins his fellow 14-year olds.

After a few minutes into the reaping ceremony, it becomes clear to Cooper that he really shouldn't have paid so much attention last year. The speech the mayor's using for starters, is an almost word-for word exact copy.

Which he finds to be a bit confusing, given how 10 has a victor in Baxton. Cooper half expected some sort of segment for the man, but nothing. Guess the effort really isn't worth it. Last year, Cooper was too nervous not to pay attention, fearing the peacekeepers would notice and punish him.

It was super mind-numbing to listen to, but he refused to let his mind wander then. Now though, well, he's in a sea of children, surely, they won't single him out. The mayor finishes his speech with the same 'forever in your favour' slogan as before.

The escort of 10 comes walking out, and Cooper immediately reels. She's wearing a white dress, which normally wouldn't be outlandish, but given how it has a Baxton face pattern on it. Yeah, Cooper is shocked she can wear something so unabashedly.

Looking behind her, it seems the man in question has the exact same thought in mind. Well, at least she does something to address the fact 10 has a new victor. More than can be said for the mayor. A silver lining maybe? Baxton probably doesn't see it.

Cooper watches as Glaphyra gives a touching speech on Baxton's success. At least, given her tone, Cooper assumes it's supposed to be touching. If anything, it couldn't be anything but out of touch. Sure, the district is happy he came home. But, to consider it 'an honour bestowed by the Capitol'?

Needless to say, the tension in the plaza rises unnecessarily high. Felino stares at her incredulously from his side. Oblivious to it all, Glaphyra quickly goes into the reaping process, marching her way towards the girl's bowl.

She like many other escorts makes a show out of picking a slip, slowly, meticulously going through the slips before deciding on one. Cooper is only paying her actions minor attention, her ridiculous dress far too demanding to simply ignore.

"If I may have your attention, the girl that will represent us in the 99th Hunger Games is," she pauses, and unfolds the slip, clears her throat and flashes a pearly white smile, "Destry Coleman!"

Cooper shakes his head, not knowing who the girl is. From his side, he can tell Felino is trying to find her. To little success if his pout is anything to go by. Cooper scans the section and finds her almost immediately.

Her balled fists, the slight tremors, the way the girls around her are slowly inching away as if she's caught something contagious. All telltale signs of a reaped tribute. It also helps that the girl's quite tall and has fiery red hair.

She shoves her way through some of the girls, a fierce frown on her face. Despite that, she looks pretty, if not a bit scary given the sharpness of her eyes. Pretty but intimidating he concludes.

The girl makes her way to the stage, she balls her fists to the point where they look ghostly. Her eyes are narrowed into a vicious glare. Glaphyra wisely does not let her speak and instead hastily makes her way to the male's bowl.

Cooper feels his chest tighten, he got like this last year and he was fine he reasons. It's just nerves. He's only 13. He doesn't have his name in there any more than necessary too. He's fine, he concludes.

He watches as Glaphyra clears her throat and peels the slip open, "…Cooper Dawson!"

He blinks once, then twice, as if trying to will the news away. It doesn't work and he's soon faced with the crushing reality that he's not fine. Not even close to being fine. His vision swims and his knees nearly give out. Felino catches him and gives him a worried glance.

Cooper gives his friend a weak smile before slowly pushing onto the main aisle. Cooper doesn't like this feeling, having everyone looking at him with pity. It's not like he doesn't get it. He's seen kids his age bawl their eyes out when called up to go to the Hunger Games. He wants to do the same.

His lip quivers, but with immense struggle, manages to reign in the tears. He gets on stage where Glaphyra congratulates him. She then gets him to shake hands with the pretty yet scary older looking girl.

He scans her face, immediately drawn to her grey eyes. It doesn't take much to realize she's also near the point of tears. She notices and glares even more harshly, prompting Cooper to flinch away from her simmering stare. The handshake that follows is far more aggressive than he'd like.

* * *

_12:02PM_

_POV – Destry Coleman_

Destry is fuming. She can't believe her shit luck. To be reaped is to die. What's worst is that her district won last year. No way in hell will the Careers let her off for that, as asinine as it sounds. Just her shit luck indeed.

The door opens, snapping her away from her thoughts and towards her friend. Levi walks in and quickly embraces her. Destry freezes, her body tensing at the intimacy before eventually deciding that yes, she does want to return the hug. His warmth does wonders for calming her, ebbing away her anger.

"Des, you got this,"

She snorts, and pulls away from him, her hands folding before her chest, "spare me the bullshit Levi, we both know my head's gonna be rolling by the end of the-"

"Could you choose something less gruesome than decapitation?"

She stares at him flatly before jabbing his arm, hard.

"Ouch, okay I deser- hey wait!"

Destry grabs his shoulder and pulls him in, shoving his neck under her arm and starts drilling her knuckle into the top of his head, "quit being a fucker, Levi."

"Okay, okay, I'm sorry. Mercy, mercy!"

She lets go and pushes him away, feeling slightly more satisfied with herself.

"I'm serious though, you got this, just look what you did to me," Levi reasons, rubbing his head and blinking tears out of his eyes.

"We'll see…" she finally says after a pregnant pause.

The two remain silent, not really having much else to say. It causes Levi to squirm, Destry isn't entirely sure what's going through his head, but isn't surprised when he starts to blurt things out a hundred words a minute.

"Arrgh, alright, look, once you win, we'll hang out, anything you want, food, sweets, clothing, on me, no questions asked."

"Aren't you only offering because you won't have to actually cash out?" Destry asks unconvinced by the prospect.

"Wha- okay, hurtful. Fine, there's something I need to tell you, but only after you get out."

"Why not just tell me now? Only chance to. Why fuck it up?"

"Can you stop pushing forward the conversation as if you're already dead."

In response, Destry gestures to the room with her hands, causing Levi to sigh. He looks downtrodden, casting his gaze to the floor, he looks torn between wanting to say something and silence. Ultimately, Destry decides for him.

"Fine," Destry folds, she just can't deal with his sadden expression, "I want a horse when I… win.," she finishes, the word and subsequent meaning just far too alien to her.

"A horse, aren't they crazy expensive?"

"That sounds like a question."

"Okay, you're right. A horse. I mean, it'll probably only cost me everything I have and then some, but a promise is a promise, and Levi Oberpriller never goes back on his word."

"Unless it's convenient for him."

"Right, unle- wait, no."

She jabs his arm again, far more gently this time, "alright, thanks for the visit, get out of here now."

"What, really?" He checks the clock before turning to face her with a quizzical expression, "I should still have some more time."

"Yes, well, I kind of want to talk to my mom," she explains, looking to the open door.

Her mom remains standing just barely outside of the room, waiting patiently for her turn.

"Oh, well I mean, she doesn't have to wai-"

"Levi, get the hell out," Destry says, shoving the boy towards the exit and promptly through it.

"Thank-you for looking after her," Her mom says with a serene, if not slightly forced smile.

Destry runs a hand down her face and pulls her mom in before shutting the door. The two remain silent for only a moment before her mom speaks up.

"So, is he-"

"Mom, you know who that loser is," Destry responds with an unamused expression.

"I merely jest dear," Her mom placates before once again letting the room fall into silence.

Her mother breaks it, "I love you so much, Destry."

Alone here with her mother, her eyes begin to prickle, Where Levi could at least act as if nothing changes, and throw a few words of encouragement. Her mom has experienced death before. She knows the pain and knows to simply say the things on one's mind. It causes all of Destry's internalized emotions to bubble to the surface as she inhales shakily.

"I love you too mom."

* * *

_11:12AM_

_POV – Adalyn Plumm_

Adalyn stands in polite silence as she listens to the mayor. The older man dulls out his uninspiring speech, clearly only really putting in the minimal effort. Still, she pays attention and claps after he's finished. The video that plays after is the same as every year. And just like every year, she watches it dutifully. To summarize, the districts are at fault, and this, The Hunger Games is the punishment.

She thinks it's complete garbage. If the Capitol didn't exploit them like livestock, the districts wouldn't feel the need to rebel. Rebellion is hardly a first-choice option, its when nothing else succeeds and the people's frustrations reach a boiling point, erupting into a volatile frenzy of passions.

She thinks she can relate. All her life, she's been taught to listen and behave. To be a good girl, not to cause her dad any problems and listen to the peacekeepers or supervisors. As if that would magically help or make her living conditions any better. She feels her anger bubble just under the surface.

She ducks her head as her mouth thins. She's doing it again. She's working herself up for no reason. As if she needs any help becoming angry, it comes way too naturally as is. She smooths her dress in an effort to calm herself.

She then refocuses back on stage and watches as the escort for 11, Melissa walks her way up to the microphone. This is Melissa's second reaping. She's a new escort and it shows clearly by how fidgety she is. She seems to have a bee theme this year going by how her hair is blonde and black, parted down the middle. Her dress is horizontally stripped between the two contrasting colours.

Overall, its eye-catching, but that's really all one could say about it. It's not the worst thing Adalyn has seen, but far from something she'd ever wear. It probably doesn't help that she's somehow linked to a fatal bee-related incident either.

She allows herself to smile ruefully before quickly falling back into her practiced if not easily breakable poised façade.

"H-hello everyone, we… we will begin with the ladies first," Melissa says after a pause.

She takes a moment as she looks to both bowls and hesitates for a second before picking correctly. She quickly marches towards the female bowl and shakily reaches into it. She selects a slip and walks back to the mic where she takes a calming breath.

"The female tribute for the Hunger Games is Adalyn Plumm," She says smoothly for once.

Adalyn feels as if she's been jabbed in the gut, the blow jarring her into place. Her dark brown eyes widen at the revelation. She discreetly looks for her exits, and quickly runs through a few wishful calculations. Can she really outrun the nearest peacekeeper? Sure, they don't know where she is right now, but for how much longer? And the moment she takes off will be the moment they tackle her down. They could harm her, cripple her even before the games. If they did, her chances would go from unlikely to impossible. No other way around it. So, it comes down to whether she believes she can truly escape.

And just how crazy of a notion is that? Escape all of the patrolling peacekeepers, escape the entirety of District 11. No tribute has done so before. She doubts she'll be the first.

With pained resignation, she slowly, painstakingly slowly makes her way through the crowd of girls and onto the main aisle. She drags her feet as she walks up to the stage and simply stares outwards with a glassy expression. She isn't really staring at any one thing, her eyes too unfocused to retain any information.

* * *

_11:44AM_

_POV – Harrison Jones_

Harrison chews the inside of his mouth, frustrated in the fact that another person is condemned to partake in the Games. It's maddening. 11's victory rate has been atrocious for the last two dozen years. Their only victor being Thresh back during the 74th.

At this point, being reaped is synonymous to death. Your chances are abysmal, you're usually underfed, the Capitol practically forgets your district exists, it's just a losing formula from start to finish. Harrison wishes to change that.

In all honesty, he wants to prevent it from happening again. An idealistic notion, but one he's willing to build up to. He just needs to find ways to properly propel 11 from this poverty-stricken cycle. Easier said than done he thinks with a tired sigh.

He's jumping the gun too, he doesn't even have a job being someone's errand boy, let alone a job being the mayor. He has a long way to go. But he's willing to do whatever it takes to get there. He eventually lifts his gaze back up to the stage with an exasperated expression.

She's still as nervous as ever, which he finds to be quite baffling. How is this escort more nervous than the girl on stage. It bothers him truth be told. The escort has nothing to worry about, the opinions of the district don't even matter to her, what is she anxious about?

He clenches his fists, feeling heat rise to his face. It's just plain offensive. He takes slow measured breaths and watches with a critical gaze as the escort makes her way to the male bowl.

He's frankly too agitated to be nervous. Not that he'd be nervous otherwise. Realistically, his chances are pretty low, his family isn't objectively rich. But when compared to the general populace? The fact he doesn't have to take out any tesserae speaks for itself.

The escort trips over her heels, but manages to catch herself before falling. He allows a snicker, a consensus met by the majority of the boys around him. Call it a vindictive satisfaction. Still, he watches as the escort hurriedly makes her way to the mic.

"The boy for- the male tribute for the Hunger Games is Harrison Jones," She says in a rushed manner.

His eyebrows raise, his icy teal eyes expanding to the size of saucers. That's unexpected, to put it lightly. It's a fucking catastrophe if he's being honest. He's too important to be sent into the games. He has goals, dreams, a duty to the district. How can he fulfill his duty if he's dead? It's just complete and utter bullshit. The fucking tragedy, just his luck to be shafted, completely and utterly fuc-

He pinches the bridge of his nose and slowly exhales. He feels the tremors in his hands, the shake and quickly shoves his hands in his pockets. He can't let this deter him. He can't let this break him.

He closes his eyes and meditates for a few seconds, trying to clear his mind. He's eventually pulled out of his stupor by a rough hand gripping his arm.

He nearly snaps but controls the desire to ram his fist into the peacekeeper. The damned Capitol dog.

"Let go. Do I look like I have any intention of running?" He asks frigidly, his calm tone out of place with the murderous gaze he casts at the peacekeeper.

The man remains unfazed, "Then quit wasting time and get to stage," he finishes letting go of the tribute.

Tribute, he's a tribute now. Harrison needs to take another calming breath just at the thought. Better to just not think at all and get it over with, he concludes. He pointedly takes his time walking up to stage, ignoring the gaze of the peacekeepers trailing right behind him.

"Your tributes for the Hunger Games, your tributes from 11!" Melissa says.

Harrison can't help but feel her last sentence was a retcon, but shrugs. He quickly shakes his partner's hand, giving her a small nod. She returns it, although it's clear to him she's just going through the motions. The ceremony ends and he's ushered into a waiting room. It doesn't take long before his brother and father enter.

"Where's mom?" He quickly asks.

"She's telling Gran," His brother, Jeremiah tells him.

He nods in understanding. She's probably too distraught to see him. A bit backwards maybe. She might never get to see him again. Still, he can at least understand it.

"Well, words of encouragement?" Harrison asks, taking a seat at one of the chairs.

"It'll be superficial at best," his father says curtly.

He nods in agreement, "I suppose you have a point."

"Advice instead. Harry, use what we taught you. You're fierce, and frankly, dangerous."

"I… should I take that as a compliment?"

Jeremiah shrugs, causing Harrison to chuckle and shake his head.

"Use that head of yours and make a few allies. Dependable, make yourself invaluable to them," his dad suggests.

"Yeah, and when you fight, don't stop. It's you or them. Give it everything you have and come home yeah?" Jeremiah finishes.

Harrison gives them a half-smile and nods, "Of course. I'm destined for great things. Can't just go dying now of all times."

His dad seems conflicted but ultimately agrees. Jeremiah pulls him from the seat into a tight hug. They part, and he does the same with his father. He waves them goodbye as they leave. As soon as the door closes he crashes back onto the chair with a hardened gaze.

He attempts to let his mind wander. He tries to, he really does, but, ultimately all of his thoughts keep coming back to the same three lines. Almost like a spell, a mantra that keeps him from completely losing it.

He won't die.

Not before seeing his dream come to fruition.

He's destined for great things.

They play on repeat, over and over again to the point he loses trace of time. He doesn't even hear when the peacekeepers knock, open and file into the room. He's practically carried onto the train when he finally breaks from his stupor.

* * *

**Author Note: I've done it, I've completed the Reapings! Only smooth sailing from here on out I tell you! Surely this comment won't come back to bite me in the butt! Anyways, like I said. I'll go into a bit of my ideal breakdown for the foreseeable chapters. For starters, from here up to the start of the Bloodbath. I plan on writing 48 POV's. 2 per tribute. To do this, I likely will have 6 POV's per chapter. This amounts to 8. **

**The spread will be:**

**2 Train Chapters**

**1 Parade + First Night Chapter **

**2 Training Day Chapters**

**1 Final Half-Day + Private Sessions Chapter**

**1 Interview Prep + Score Summary Chapter**

**1 Interview Chapter**

**I intend to randomize all of the POV placements (the exception being to the Train Chapters, where I will get one POV from each district). I'm really looking forward to writing about these characters! **


	13. Train Rides Part 1

_POV - Kyra Boldar_

_1:09PM _

"Sorry about all that bullshit earlier, but you know how the Capitol is, they need everything to be hammy as hell," the escort explains with a shrug of his shoulders.

He doesn't really wait for a response and instead presses a button, causing the train doors to slide open. He makes a quick gesture with his hand and ushers the mentors and tributes into the train. Kyra politely nods her head as she wordlessly enters the vehicle.

She immediately notices the heating and finds it pleasant compared to the autumn chill. She follows Miss Kingsley, the 97th Victor down the aisle into a rather spacious room. It has a dining table with foods already served to one end, and a few cushioned seats, much like the ones found in the waiting rooms in the city hall.

Said seats face a tv that's currently playing back the district 2 reapings. Somehow all of this stuff managed to fit inside without making the room appear cramp. Her mentor takes a seat at the dining table.

"Sit across from me," She orders.

For what else could the curt command be? Kyra complies immediately, she waits patiently as Mister Sorensen and Remy file into the room. She notices Remy nod in appreciation as he inspects the room, much like she did moments ago.

"Sit by your partner," Mister Sorensen says, in much the same tone Miss Kingsley did.

Remy turns to face his mentor as if trying to gauge him, it lasts only a second though, and he shrugs his shoulders as he sits in the chair beside her. She notices he leans back on the last two pegs of his chair as he rests his arm over the top.

"Alright, guess we're talking strategy now, huh?" Remy asks, a cocky grin smeared over his face, he seems entirely too at home.

Kyra furrows her brows at her district partner. She's trying to calm the growing anxiety fraying at her nerves, and here he is as blasé as ever, unaffected by having the two deadliest victors sitting before them. It's as impressive as it is infuriating.

"We are. The Boule has given Spartacus and I reports on the both of you," Miss Kingsley explains smoothly.

Kyra slumps her shoulders. Miss Andrzejewski doesn't lie for someone's sake, she'll be polite about it, but still as honest as the rest of them. Sure, Kyra improved in an interview setting, but she isn't sure how much of that is familiarity with her trainer rather than growth in the setting.

"Kyra, you're working with me. Personally, I don't care much for how you do in the interviews so long as your score is adequate. I'll acquire the sponsors, just make yourself something worth sponsoring," Miss Kingsley instructs.

Kyra nods, finding herself sagging in relief. She can do that.

"Remy is it? Sounds familiar, anyways, yeah. Same spiel, just focus on securing the Career alliance. I don't care if these survival scores are suboptimal. It won't matter if you secure the cornucopia," Mister Sorensen says, aiming the remarks towards Remy.

The tribute in question narrows his brows dangerously. Kyra quirks hers in response, the instructions made sense to her, what's got him so mad?

"Sure, whatever," He decides, dismissingly waving his hand.

"Listen both of you, it's painfully clear that the Boule didn't elect you for anything other than your combat scores. In that, you're the best of the best. Play to your strengths. It won't matter if you can't navigate an interview or tell poison berries from edible ones if you've already killed everyone. Do I make myself clear?" Miss Kingsley says, turning her head to face Kyra then Remy with a stoic expression.

Under the icy scrutinizing gaze, Kyra finds herself nodding along.

"That's all. You're both dismissed, do as you please," Miss Kingsley says as she stands from the table.

Kyra watches as her mentor walks down the hall, sparing only a small nod towards the escort before entering a new car.

"Hmm, well that's certainly interesting, yo, Spartacus, you don't mind if I drink do you?" Remy asks, his cocky grin back on his face again.

Kyra's really starting to dislike it. If only because there's just no way she could reciprocate one of her own. Mister Sorensen shrugs and waves a hand, causing one of the Avox servants to come over.

"What you two feeling?" The mentor asks, turning to face the tributes again.

Kyra frowns, not feeling anything if she's being honest. She much rather not intoxicate herself. If anything, she just wants to look over the recaps. She wants to see what her possible allies will look like.

Consider it childish, but she just wants to know how she stands compared to District 1. She's never been a fan of them. Especially in recent years where they're almost famously known for screwing the alliance over. A one-sided rivalry, but one she's willing to take seriously.

"Got any recommendations?" Remy asks, turning to face the servant, a smirk on his lips.

"He'll have what I'm having, rum yeah?" Mister Sorensen says, noticing the Avox eyes widen in panic.

The mentor then turns to face Kyra expectantly, prompting her to clear her throat.

"A-apple juice," Kyra says, ducking her head as to avoid any possible disappointing glances sent her way.

Instead, she hears a tired, "suit yourself. That'll be all then."

"Who'd a guess, they really are mute," Remy muses loudly.

Kyra stands from the table abruptly, causing both pair of eyes to land on her, she ducks her head again.

"Sorry, I just want to look at the recaps now," She explains, gesturing to the tv and couches.

Mister Sorensen nods his head in what she assumes is permission, she doesn't bother looking at her partner. Her immediate impression of him is: insufferable. Does she need to make an alliance with this guy? Just the thought makes her want to groan in frustration, instead, she'll just minimize the amount of time directly talking to him.

Taken in small doses, kind of like building up an immunity to a toxic poison. Yeah, that sounds apt. She didn't know him directly. But his reputation does precede him. A textbook 'bad boy'. An arrogant manchild who likes to break the rules and throws tantrums when he doesn't get what he wants.

She's bled for every inch she's gained; he's been given it for free. His family is rich, his father a well known and influential figure. Her family is always teetering on the edge of poverty, and her parents are lowly masonries. They come from opposite sides of the same coin that is District 2.

She wants to write him off as dead weight because of this. What does he know of hardships, work ethic? Yet, despite this, Miss Kingsley wasn't lying. The two of them are the best fighters of their year. How is infuriating. She started late, sure, but it doesn't look like he's someone serious about his training either. He's a natural then, and that only serves to agitate her more. Just another of many things stacked against her from the start.

That being said, although he's not particularly someone she'd like to associate with. She'll choose her battles wisely. She much rather Remy over anyone from 1 any day anyways.

* * *

_POV - Newt Faraday_

_4:09PM _

The food is delicious. Newt already ate earlier today, not stopping until he was droopy-eyed and just about ready to topple over in sleep. In fact, that's precisely what he did after stuffing himself full. He went to the couches by the TV and lazed about until sleep took over. It helped that the couch itself was softer than any bed he ever had the chance to lay on.

The Capitol people have quite a luxurious lifestyle, Newt concludes. If he could have the stuff they did, he'd understand why all of them are funny. Food and bed like that would make anyone act differently.

Newt stretches his arms, and groans in relief as his joints pop. He looks out the window and sees some trees whip by. The sun's slowly descending, casting an orange hue over the treeline. It's a pretty sight, but one that only reminds him that he's been sleeping for some bit.

He peels his brown eyes off the scenery to check the contents of the train. He notices that his district partner and her mentor are absent. His own mentor is probably in bed too. An older man, one who won nearly 45-50 years ago. The gruff man was one who didn't pay him any mind and quickly left him to his own devices.

Newt is a bit unsure about all that, he can't help but feel like he's been written off. Whenever he tried to talk with his mentor too, the old man would just tell him to bugger off and enjoy the food. As if he were telling him to enjoy it before it's gone.

Newt frowns a bit at the thought. The more he thinks about it, the more likely it becomes. His mentor really does think he's a lost cause. Is that why he's not associating with him at all? Newt doesn't think he's hopeless. He may be small, but he's got the fight and the will to return home. It's a bit frustrating how hopeless the situation feels, his own lifeline abandoning him before it all starts.

"Ah, it seems you are awake," Someone says from behind him.

Newt jolts at the voice slightly and turns to face the person. Daedalus, his escort looks back at him with an impassive stoic expression.

"Hello, yes. I'm wa- awake now."

"Next time I'd recommend you refrain from gorging down too much food at once," The escort says, his hands subconsciously folding behind his back.

He appears quite military-like, it makes Newt tilt his head in confusion. He readily nods though, thinking back on how his stomach hurt a bit just before sleep took him.

"Well, I appra-appri-appreciate? Appreciate it," Newt says with a smile, not at all deterred by how easily his tongue ties in knots.

The man nods stiffly before taking a seat on one of the other couches present. The escort smooths his suit before reaching for the control and turning it on. The sudden sound of commentators' startles Newt momentarily. He finds his gaze turning to the tv.

Two men sitting at a desk discuss their first impressions of the tributes. Newt watches in morbid curiosity, the careers receive the usual amount of praise and positive reception. Even three turned some heads with the tall bald guy. 4 surprisingly was entirely reaped. Newt hears his escort click his tongue in frustration.

"Erasmus lost his composure when the situation didn't pane out for him, you, Newton Faraday, you best make sure not to repeat the same blunder as this man, it'll be the last you see of him," Daedalus says, addressing Newt with a neutral gaze.

Newt blinks at hearing his name, he blinks again at the fact the stoic and otherwise quiet escort spoke to him at all. He happily took the opportunity though, nodding his head.

"Right, that makes sense, being cool under pressure always helps during the Games."

The escort scoffs, "Your view is too narrow. Do you see this man in the Hunger Games?

Newt frowns, well obviously he isn't in the Games.

"So, you're stayi-saying I should be composed the entire time?"

"Ideally, a soldier must be poised during all situations. For you, that includes private sessions and interviews. Do not waver, and you'll receive the praise of the Capitol."

Newt nods his head slowly, sort of getting it.

"That's easier said than done though, I'm sure anyone would want to be compost-composed if they could."

"Hmph, can you afford not to be?" The man asks, crossing his arms as he looks towards Newt.

The tribute mouth thins, "well shit, when you put it like that I guess I don't."

"Try to do something about your vernacular, it's unbecoming of a soldier."

He's a tribute though, not a solider he wants to point out. Instead, he simply nods. No point getting on his bad side. Besides, as ridiculous as it seems, he's been more helpful than his mentor.

"Anything else you can rec-recon-recommend me?" Newt asks.

The faintest of smiles form on the man's lips, "there may be a thing or two."

* * *

_POV – Tesla Eddison _

_5:12PM _

Tesla paces back and forth, uncertainty and hesitance plaguing her movements. She's suspicious, who wouldn't be! Her district partner's way too relaxed. Valla tried speaking to him, only for the man to curtly respond and retreat into his room.

Even their mentor, has had little success talking with the mystery baldie. She's really starting to think he's a secret agent. He doesn't talk to anyone, he doesn't come out of his room, he looks strong and imposing. What's Tesla supposed to think?

Besides the other contending theory of an android sent to protect her. She sighs a little wistfully. If only it were that easy. If only a prince in shining armour came out of nowhere to protect her from these games. To swoop her off her feet, to bridal carry her into the sunset. The very thought makes her sag her shoulders.

Instead, she's stuck in this train, shipped off to die. And what's worst is the fact her mind keeps wandering off, thinking of stupid scenarios that will never happen. She throws her arms up in the air in frustration and starts to scratch her head. All of this just making her feel sick.

She just wants to get it over with. She bites her lip as she slowly psyches herself. Just knock on the door, a few quick ones. If he answers, great! If he doesn't, also great! The only reason she finds herself in front of the door is exclusively due to her curiosity.

Otherwise, she'd never approach a stranger like this, let alone an older boy. That's, it's just not her Modus operandi. Curiosity did kill the cat after all. Makes her wonder what she'd look like as a cat, what breed? Probably a Korat, they have such cute short hai-

No, she shakes her head and clears her thoughts. She can't let her mind distract her. She wants to see her curiosity though. Korat or not! After one final breath, she knocks on his door, three times. She made sure to keep them measured, and loud, but not distractingly so. She wants to get his attention, but not make it seem demanding. She only wants to talk to him.

She waits. No response. Is he sleeping? Or maybe he's hurt? What if he's using the washroom or showering? What if he's… colour rushes to her face as she vehemently shakes her head. No, that can't be it.

Robots or Secret Agents didn't do that kind of stuff. She hopes at least. He's probably just sleeping or maybe ignoring her. She thinks she hears something, but with the sound of the bulleting train masking subtler noises, it's hard to tell. She leans forward, placing an ear to his door. She squints her eyes as she tries to concentrate, she thinks she hears footsteps.

She's proven correct when the door slides open. No longer having a door to support her already off-balance stance, she quickly finds herself falling forward. Her face crashes into a sturdy chest, but that's the extent of her fall. The taller boy easily catches her.

Tesla remains in place a little longer than necessary, she just can't help it. She hears a heartbeat. It's calm and soft, but still there nevertheless. That means her robot theory's written out. Robots can't have heartbeats after all. Before she can fully grasp the implications of the fact he's a real-life boy- one she's in the arms of to boot, said teen peels her off his chest. He straightens her in front of him with both hands around her arms, dusting her off almost routinely.

"What do you want?" He asks after he finishes tidying her.

Although his phrase seemed distant, his tone didn't have any bite to it, encouraging Tesla a bit. She shakes her head, before looking up to the taller teen.

"I… uhm, well, I just wanted to talk," she manages to say.

"I see. I cannot do that. If that's all," The bald teen says, already going to the button that closes his door.

"W-wait, are you apart of a super top-secret organization or something?" Tesla blurts, her eyes swimming in a panic.

She freezes. What did she just end up saying to this guy?! Why, what possessed her to blurt that? He obviously can't tell her anything if it's secret, that defeats the point. She was supposed to be subtle! There's nothing subtle about the single most direct approach imaginable. She wants to pull out her hair but ends up finding her gaze landing on his.

He freezes, his eyebrows rising comically for a second before his face falls back into a mask of indifference. He breaks eye contact mechanically and turns to look at the button. He presses it a second later, prompting the door to slide in between the two of them.

Tesla remains gobsmacked looking at the offending door. What did that mean?

What did that mean!?

* * *

_POV – Harrison Jones_

_6:31pm _

There isn't much of a library on the train, a bit of a disappointment Harrison decides. He always assumed the Capitol would have everything at their disposal. Perhaps it was simply not worth the investment to have some books around on the trains, especially if the train predominately serves to ship tributes to the Capitol. What do backwater district tributes know of reading anyways, right? He chuckles dryly at the thought, staring out of the train window as he does so. Hopefully, he'd manage to find something to read when he arrives.

Not that he'd have much time to read, but he does enjoy a good book before bed. He's confident he could convince his escort to sneak some to him if the need demands it.

Speaking of his escort, Melissa seems to be chatting with his mentor, Thresh. The two seemed to get along well enough. Harrison admittedly didn't know what to expect of his mentor. Thresh is a recluse, who only shows up during reapings, the man's quiet. Seeing this side of him is new, although not entirely all that interesting.

Harrison quickly loses focus and finds his stare shifting from the mentor escort duo to his district partner.

She sits at one of the couches with him, but instead of aimlessly staring out the window, watching the trees zip by. She instead stares at the tv screen, going over the recaps with an almost mind-numbed expression washing over her features.

"Anything worthy of note?" Harrison asks.

He bites down on his tongue, preventing himself from laughing at how long it takes the girl to snap from her trance.

"Huh? O-oh, right. District 4 has reaped tributes only."

Harrison's eyebrows raise at that, "really? So the Career alliance will be pinched this year."

"… yeah, I guess," she responds quietly, closing herself off from the conversation.

As to why, it's probably to do with the fact she's reminded of the fact she's in the games. Harrison himself finds it hard to talk about. Who truly wants to discuss an event that celebrates the chance of his death? It's much easier, simpler and better on one's psyche to ignore it altogether.

However, ignoring it would get him killed. It's simply something Harrison can't afford. He's destined to be mayor. It's his goal, he can't afford to wallow in self-pity, despair or agony. He needs to focus and mentally prepare himself for what will be the toughest part of his life.

"Excuse me, Adalyn? I don't wish to impose, but I do believe you should take this seriously," Harrison eventually says, garnering the girl's attention.

She bristles at the remark, her eyes becoming far livelier than they've been this whole train ride. She clenches her fists and glares at him.

"What the hell did you just say to me?"

Harrison's eyebrows raise. Okay, he admittedly did not expect that kind of reaction. She's been so demure this entire time, the snippy response caught him off guard. Apparently, the silence wasn't the answer she was looking for though.

"What do you know jackass? You think you're somebody just because you've beaten people for your job? Big whoop, you're not the first."

Harrison's gaze takes a dangerous edge to it, staring at the petite girl unflinchingly. He eventually blinks and brings his hands the bridge of his nose. He needs to calm down. She's probably like him. Temperamental, no, if her reaction is anything to go by- which it is, then she's very temperamental.

Exactly like him then.

He's also surprised she's recognized him, or even know about that incident. It happened, 4, no, 5 years ago. All he did was beat a kid who attacked him. Perhaps that's understating it, but at the end of the day, beating a kid pales in comparison for what she's known for. The girl who's discovered a corpse, who's suspected for killing using tracker jackers. A ludicrous notion.

But, the people from 11 have proven to be superstitious if nothing else.

"My apologies then. I've misjudged you," Harrison amends.

"Hmph, it's fine…" She crosses her arms across her chest, pointedly looking away from him.

Harrison sighs, running a hand through his short hair. This was his first attempt at any meaningful diplomacy. Normally, a conversation like this with a person like her wouldn't carry any weight. She's just a field worker. But here, on this train as fellow tributes, a possible alliance can mean the difference between life or death. The weight of it is tenfold.

"…sorry," Adalyn mumbles.

Harrison's attention is drawn back to the lanky girl. She looks rather mortified, which only serves to perplex Harrison even more. Just how volatile is her temperament exactly? He learns his lesson this time and quickly responds.

"No apology needed, I'm sure we're all stressed from the situation at hand. If anything, I should be saying sorry for offending you."

Apparently, that wasn't the answer. Instead of snapping, however, she slinks further down the chair, appearing even more ashamed. Does she not like the way she behaves? Then why- no, even he knows the answer to that.

Anger is something he's quite familiar with, it's quite dominant over other emotions he finds, she probably can't control her anger, much like him. Not that he can blame her, 11 can create resentment quite easily, being poverty-stricken, corrupt, and economically deprived of growth. A festering district slowly dying away.

"No… no, you are right, I just snapped because I didn't want to hear it," Adalyn admits, it looks like it was difficult to do so.

"I understand. Regardless, I could have been more tactful."

"Yes, you could have. But, that's not the point."

"Well then, do you wish to continue our previous conversation?"

"About me needing to take things more seriously?" She asks calmly, too calmly.

"The one before that," Harrison corrects with a grimace, yeah, steer her away from that.

"Okay then, sure, I need to do it anyways."

"Glad we could come to an understanding," Harrison says, a smile forming.

Yes, he's quite pleased with himself. If only every interaction could end with resolved conflict. His smile becomes bitter. Where he's going, these kinds of conversations are going to be far and few in between.

* * *

_POV – Sela Fields_

_7:23PM _

The Outer districts are further away than the Capitol compared to say, 1 or 2. This means that while those districts would be arriving in just half a day, those in the outer districts could spend up to 2 days. Just another advantage the careers possess. They'll have time to grow accustomed to their layout, even spend more time with their stylists.

It's truly unfair, Sela feels. Even if it's minuscule in nature, she can't help but feel even the few extra hours contribute to grooming a tribute into a victor. District 9 will arrive at around 3pm tomorrow. It's not the worst time to arrive, as it's in the middle of the afternoon. There should be good traffic, assuming Capitolites don't work.

Sela finds herself pondering the notion. Do Capitolites work? What would they do? Primary resources are accounted for by outlier districts and a lot of the other luxuries and or technologies are crafted and created by inner districts. Therefore, what does the Capitol do, other than own companies in other districts that is?

It only takes her a second to realize, the Hunger Games. They produce escorts and gamemakers, same with media crews, interviewers, trainers, the list goes on. The jobs they predominantly possess are those that assist with the Hunger Games. It makes sense, Sela concludes with a grimace.

She instinctively turns to look at her escort and mentor, Aspasia looks already worn out. Not that Sela could blame her, the moment they were inside the train, Sela didn't stop badgering her with questions.

What was Rye like? What advice did he normally give? Do you know any survival tips? Career patterns? How do I impress the judges? What approach suits me for interviews?

The questions were endless. For two straight hours, all Sela did was ask and ask. Anything she could think of that might help.. She figured as an escort first and foremost, Aspasia would lack the knowledge to help her much on the Arena.

However, she did give her tips on how to converse and cater to Capitolites. The information, although worthless in the arena, may prove to help her beforehand. She wouldn't take it lightly.

After her musings, Sela takes a moment to scan her surroundings, her district partner, Harvest seems to be eating dinner alone.

Her escort/mentor retreated to her room, exhausted.

Seeing now an opportune time to speak with her district partner, she stands from the sofa and takes a seat opposite of Harvest with a small smile. The boy gives her a small nod of acknowledgment but goes back to eating his soup.

He's guarded. Understandable given their circumstances. But, Sela can't afford for him to not trust her. Whether it's her or him, she doesn't care who wins. As long as it's one of them. She needs to win his trust, quickly. She'll just start with a conversation and see where it takes her, she concludes.

"Hello, how's the soup?" Sela starts.

"The soup tastes well," Harvest answers simply with an almost mechanical tone.

"Really? Would you recommend it then?"

Harvest shakes his head, "I cannot say, however, you are free to taste it if you wish."

Sela stares at the bowl as Harvest slowly pushes it towards her. Shrugging, she grabs a new spoon and samples the soup. Unsurprisingly, it's delicious as Harvest says. She nods in approval.

"Hmm, you're right. It does taste good."

Harvest doesn't answer and instead stares intently at Sela with a scrutinizing gaze. She smiles in return.

"I do not wish to sound rude, but why are you speaking to me?" Harvest eventually asks.

"Ah, I see. Well, if I'm being honest, I'd like it if we worked together if possible," Sela says.

"Worked together? As in allies?" The teen asks, testing the word.

"That's right. I think our chances of winning improve if we work together," She explains.

Harvest nods in agreement, "you do raise a good point."

"Glad you see it that way, in that case, would you be okay with allying with me?"

Harvest straightens in his seat, a hand going to his chin as he ponders the offer. The soup goes entirely abandoned. Sela is patient and waits for him with a content smile. She's glad she's managed to spark this much thought. It makes sense to work together. The Hunger Games in unforgivable, any advantage she can get, she'll take.

"Very well, I accept your proposition. Thank you for having me," Harvest says, breaking the silence.

Sela smiles brightly nodding her head in approval, "No, thank-you for teaming up with me."

"Ah, your welcome," Harvest responds almost mechanically.

Sela tilts her head, her smile turns whimsical as she quirks an eyebrow. He's certainly an interesting fellow. A bit airheaded she concludes. But ultimately, someone who's not at all disturbed by the situation he's in.

Normally that'd unnerve her. But, he doesn't seem confident to be here, nor does he feel to be lethargic. A cool composure, a balance between the two. At least, he doesn't give off the impression of a sociopath.

"Well then, ally, I propose we divide what we learn during the training sessions," Sela says.

Harvest raises a hand to his chin again, "If we do that, we would be dependant on the other, if one of us dies, it will cripple the other," He says simply as if discussing the weather.

Sela, in turn, nods, her face straining at the thought. She didn't consider that. Admittedly, she wanted to optimize what they learned, to better help them in the arena. But if one of them did die, it would jeopardize the other. She'd rather none of them die so early on. But she supposes it's something she'd have to consider.

She isn't at all disturbed at the thought of her or his death. One of them needs to die anyway. It's a bitter truth, but a reality she's already accepted. As long as one of them survives, she isn't all that perturbed who it is.

"You're right, I got a little overzealous there."

"That is fine. I think we both should cover essentials but then split up from there. Whatever essentials may entail."

Sela nods, that works for her. They can fine-tune the details later. Maybe when they actually see what each station may offer. Sela smiles, satisfied with how her alliance is panning out. It looks like a good start to her, and a good start for 9 too.

* * *

_POV – Nylon Hemmings_

_9:09PM _

Nylon pokes his head out of his door, looking down both ways before concluding the coast is clear. He slowly slips out of his room, and quietly makes his way back into the main car.

All attempts of secrecy immediately go out the window the moment his gaze lands on Kevlar, his mentor. The man's idly scratching his beard as he drinks from a bottle. He seems dazed, lost in his own world. It makes Nylon cringe at the sight.

This man is his advisor for these games. Truly unfortunate. Nylon doesn't remember much of the man's games, so he doesn't recall what precise event in said games could have driven the man into alcoholism. Although, he figures it was probably a gradual descend into a crippling addiction.

The games do seem to have that impact on people. Nylon wonders, would he be an alcoholic like Kevlar? Or perhaps an addict, or perhaps a lunatic? He doubts he'll be a fashion designer like Scarlet. How someone can transition to a rather normal life after surviving the Hunger Games truthfully shocks him. He respects and applauds her for it. Her designs are kind of interesting too.

"What do you want kid?" Kevlar asks, finally noticing him.

Nylon raises his hands in mock surrender, "nothing boss man, just wanted a place to relax, room's too stuffy."

"Ahh, well, don't mind me then," The man says after a swig.

Nylon nods, already ignoring the man. If he wants to drink himself under the table, Nylon's not going to stop him. To each their own, Kevlar his alcohol, and Nylon his pranks. He won't lie. Before being sent into the Arena, he kind of wants to see if he can prank any of the Capitol people.

Might be a bit of a suicidal idea, but he's being sent to die. So, silver lining. Rather die on his terms than someone else's. He fetches into his pocket and grabs a pen and folded sheet of paper. Every good prank starts from its foundation, the planning process.

He won't have time to do much other than brainstorm during the train ride anyway. Not that he'd want to prank his mentor or escort. Cleopatra, as she continuously reminded him, doesn't seem like a person who'd be receptive to pranks.

Scarlet even less so. Kevlar would be too drunk most of the time. And Velvet, well, he doesn't have a good read on her yet. He did kind of go into his room to break down for a bit, so he didn't interact with her at all.

She might be fun to prank, but then again, he'd rather not prank those who could directly kill him in the arena. At least, not prank in a manner that could trace back to him. He wasn't famous per se, but he did tend to have pranks pinned on him.

So, he'd rather avoid those from home if he can help it. Speaking of.

"Why hello there fellow victim, what can I do for you this fine evening night?" Nylon asks, his gaze only raising to the window and looking at the reflection of his district partner.

The girl snorts, "I'm not a fan of playing the victim, to be honest."

"Ah, bloodthirsty killer? Very nice, I never pegged you for one, but you know what they say? Can't judge a book by its cover."

"True, you're better reading the synopsis, that's kind of its purpose."

'Yeah?" Nylon raises his gaze to her, his interest mostly piqued, "what does yours say then?"

She smiles, and Nylon finds that it gives off the impression of a fox, "If I had to explain it in a sentence, maybe: fun-loving easy-going prankster?"

Nylon perks at this, "really? Sounds a lot like-"

"You? What a funny coincidence," Velvet interrupts, her smile never faltering.

"Woow, a personal stalker!" He concludes excitedly, a sparkle in his eye.

"Not In this lifetime," She deadpans instantly, all sense of mirth evaporating for an expression of exasperation.

"Give it a month then," he answers casually.

She nods, pretending to be impressed, "a month? And here I had you pegged for a bloodbath."

Nylon stiffens for a second, before immediately breaking into rambunctious cackles as he throws his head back. He takes a moment to recover and whips a tear from his eye. Admittedly, it wasn't that funny. But he finds that belittling the problem makes it much easier to deal with.

"Hey now, can't be a bloodbath if I never go to the bloodbath, catch my drift?"

"When you put it like that, now you're sounding like a true contender. Guess, you'll use all of the wilderness training us from 8 are known for, to survive without equipment, right?" She questions sarcastically, although it's without bite and said more in jest.

"Bingo, too many people sleep on us from 8, it's redonkulous," Nylon says sagely, nodding his head as if spouting profound knowledge.

Velvet finally cracks, snickering at his remark, "I'd prefer if everyone sleeps on us then, catch my drift?"

"Oh ho ho, sneaky, sneaky. You'd make a good prankster, I can tell."

Velvet perks at this herself, "think so? I'm honoured the resident prankster praises me so," she finishes with a mock bow.

"Sure you don't stalk me?" Nylon teases, a goofy smile blooming over his face.

"Please you're not that impressive," She responds with the same deadpan dismissal.

Nylon feigns being punched, clasping his gut as he leans forward on his sofa, "Ooow, what a truly biting remark, my ego crumbles!"

"Well, as the old saying goes, 'hubris kills'," Velvet says airily with a wave of her hand.

Nylon laughs, "not before your comments will."

"touché Nylon, touché."

* * *

**AN: Okay, Part 1 done. Working on part 2 now! Anyways, sorry for the delay. I had a bit of technical difficulty and needed to get a new laptop. Thankfully, I saved everything on the cloud anyways. So nothing's lost. Just a minor setback! These chapters are easier to write, as I like to write interactions, Some come more naturally than others, but I ultimately hope to improve on all of them by the start of the actual Games!**

**Not gonna lie, editting this went way worst than I thought. Guess I'm just eager to get this out. **


	14. Train Rides Part 2

_POV – Corolla Beron_

_6:08PM_

Cory's on edge. The moment she left the admittedly no safer safety of district 6, her nerves have been frayed. It's really happening, she's really being shipped to her death, like cars to the crusher.

It takes everything just to remain calm. She can't mask it all though, the slight tremor of her hand, the slow trickling sweat down her forehead, subtle yet present signs for anyone looking.

And naturally, out of everyone here, her district partner happens to be one observant kid. He's peering at her with an unflinching gaze, almost expectantly. For someone already anxious about the situation, it doesn't help. Cory knows she's not in a good state if all it takes is a kid to stare at her to unnerve her.

"What do you want?" She hisses.

The boy's eyebrows shot up for a second. Cory feels momentarily victorious. It doesn't last as he simply shrugs.

"Nothing, I'm just bored. Wanna talk?" the boy asks after some thought.

Cory looks down on him, mustering her best haughty expression, "oh? Why would I want to do that?"

She feels quite relieved when she sees the child flinch. But he recovers quickly with a lopsided smile. It serves to agitate her. She normally never associates with others to begin with unless they are people she knows or are friends.

The Hunger Games change that, force it really. It's an amalgamation of stressful situations spilling over. Perhaps she's lashing out a bit too much. Still conversing with others could be harmful. They could learn things about her, weaknesses, exploits or tells. It's probably best she didn't associate with anyone at all.

Her chances go up this way, she thinks. The only person she'll dignify with conversation is her mentor. Her district partner could be out to exploit her, through association, his mentor could too. And their escort… well, he creeps her out.

The way he looks at her when he thinks she's not noticing unnerves her. She'd never want to be alone in a room with him. Even now, from her spot on the couch to the dining table, the escort, Karan's gaze seems to travel towards her from over his cup of tea.

She shivers at the thought. She can't help but feel scandalized under his gaze. She swallows thickly and turns to look at her district partner again. He has an unreadable expression; it slowly breaks out into a nervous grimace.

He noticed too then.

Great, so she wasn't going crazy. Their escort really is a creep. How fun!

"Have you spoken to your mentor yet?" The boy asks suddenly.

Cory narrows her eyes and stares at him critically. Eventually, she shrugs and nods her head. It's better, to tell the truth here in this instance than lie. Assuming he took everything, she said seriously, lying would only set her up to look weak, or not truly invested in surviving. It'd be a mess she'd rather avoid.

The very idea is offensive, Cory's many things, but a quitter is not one. Don't stop, never stop. As her mantra goes.

"What's she like? Anything like Icarus? That guy's a riot. Always cracking jokes," The boy rattles on, seemingly ignoring the previous tension.

Cory can't help but feel as if he's not taking it seriously. If a mentor is cracking jokes or not being serious, it reflects his stance on the tribute, right? Perhaps he thinks her district partner is a write-off. It would make sense, a small kid doesn't really fare well in the arena. Usually, they're the first picked off in the bloodbath.

It makes her grimace. She really didn't want to start thinking about the games so soon. Or at all really. But, well, she needs to. She's resigned to her fate. As unfair and unjust as it is. It'd be stupid not to focus on her goal. She wants to survive; she bets everyone reaped does.

"Circe is…" she freezes.

Huh, now that she thinks about it, what is Circe like? The woman's soft-spoken, hardly initiates conversation and constantly has this glassy expression on her face, like she's not all there.

"… she's interesting," Cory concludes lamely, instantly regretting the lacklustre response.

Her district partner laughs, "interesting huh? How interesting!"

She bites down on her tongue, preventing herself from lashing out at the child. She set herself up for that really. Besides, his opinion really didn't matter, so she wouldn't let it bother her.

"if that's all, I think I'm going to head to my room," She says stiffly.

The boy smirks knowingly, which she promises doesn't bother her at all, not even a little. She stands abruptly from the couch. From her peripheral, Karan does the same. It causes her to freeze on the spot, her eyes going wide.

"Corolla, would you like me to escort you to your room?" The man asks smoothly.

She swallows thickly, but shakes her head in the negative, not trusting her voice to not out her as thoroughly creeped out.

"It's two cars away, what's she need an escort for?" The boy asks innocently.

Too innocently.

"I believe, I did not ask you Senna," All warmth gone from his tone.

He's too obvious with his intentions!

"Oh, don't mind me, I was just thinking out loud," Senna says sagely, nodding his head.

"I'd ask you refrain from doing so in the future," the escort responds, a bit of annoyance bleeding through.

"I'm okay, thanks for the offer, escort Karan," Cory pipes in, bowing a bit.

She doesn't want him near her, but at the same time, would rather not antagonize or annoy him. He can't be dangerous, otherwise, he wouldn't have a job as an escort still. But It doesn't shake off the dreadful feeling she has of him.

"If you wish," He smiles in response.

It's a strained smile she notices, the minor twitches, the way it doesn't reach his eyes, it takes everything in her not to gulp audibly. She instead lets the building saliva linger and instead bows again before turning on her heels. She marches all the way back to the safety of her room and locks it.

Once there, she allows herself to swallow nervously, and go for a cup of water. She knows he can't do anything to her, he simply can't. There's no way the Capitol would let a scandal like that last. If not towards the people of 6, then maybe those vying for his position. An escort role is quite prestigious after all. The publicity one gets is a lot, fame and attention seem like things Capitolites strive for.

Her logic checks out. It has to. To be safe though, she's not going to chance it. She smiles bitterly. Consider it practice for the games, she thinks sardonically.

* * *

_POV – Mila Carway_

_8:24PM_

Dinner was delicious, so was lunch, now that Mila thinks about it. She felt guilty at first eating it, thinking on how much food there was, and how easily it would feed her family for weeks. But, knowing at the price it came, she was glad it was her instead of anyone else.

So, she savoured the final meals for what they were. Besides, building up energy would be essential for whatever arena they throw at her. She needed to pick up mass as fast as possible if only to build energy reserves for the inevitable time she goes back to not eating anything.

She likes to think that would be an advantage, used to not having much to eat. She doubts those from richer districts understand the feeling, the painful gnawing, as if one's own stomach was cannibalizing itself.

It was enough to force her to adapt, to learn how to steal and pickpocket. At least then, her siblings didn't go nearly as hungry. But she's getting sidetracked. Earlier today, hers and her district parnter's mentor, Primrose gave a very precise explanation for what's to happen to them.

Since they're from 12, they have the longest train ride. As such, the moment they arrive, they're shipped off to some stylists to be made pretty, whatever she meant by that. Afterwards, they'll slip into their costume and go on the ceremonial parade.

Sharing a mentor is quite unfortunate, Mila finds, as Primrose seems adamant in trying to get them to work together. Mila reasonably disagrees. She would rather not take her chances with strangers who could backstab her at any moment.

Trust in the games Is a fast track to an early death. It seems her partner agrees. As even though he seems to like talking to her, he's guarded. She can tell, he doesn't say anything of value and tends to keep track of her hands.

He'd be tricky to deceive. It'd simply be better to not try at all. He's ill too. Mila notices how easily fatigued he gets from simple things such as standing for too long or eating too quickly. He's essentially crippled by his own sickness. Mila's confident she could take him in a fight if it comes down to it.

With a resolute nod, she turns the tv on, watching the reaping recaps. Both career districts look like threats, but nothing beyond the standard. 3 looks interesting, the tall bald guy doesn't look concerned to be reaped at all. 4 surprisingly reaped, cutting the career pack by a third. She finds herself relieved by it, but only marginally.

She can't really afford to grow complacent due to a lucky break. Both from 4 look very well fed and able-bodied, they could find themselves in the pack anyways. That being said, Mila doesn't put much stock in that theory. Better to expect the worst rather than the best though.

She presses on, 5 and 6 look like complete write-offs. 7 raises questions, male volunteered, but he looks absolutely built like a hovercraft. He's huge, and someone Mila instantly decides to avoid at all costs. Even if he were completely and utterly useless with a weapon, it wouldn't matter since his body basically counted.

The outlier districts have a surprising amount of older and abled bodies. It makes her instinctively chew her cheek. She's a small girl, she knows that. So she can't fight fair. She takes a moment to formulate a plan.

If she managed to form an alliance with one of the outlier districts, maybe the guy from 9, 11 or possibly the girl from 10, it would metaphorically kill two birds with one stone. She could secure some insurance for the bloodbath and eliminate a potential threat.

It's a grim thought, and she doesn't feel particularly clever or smart for plotting a betrayal. But, it's her life over theirs. She wouldn't be resentful if someone betrayed her. Although, admittedly it wouldn't be much of a betrayal because there would never have been any trust to begin with.

Still, backstabbing people is something she's long become accustomed to. She won't feel guilty or remorseful for what she knows she needs to do. Her life goes above all, she'll do whatever she can to get back to her family. Even if that means ripping others from theirs.

* * *

_POV – Locust Sequoia_

_9:01PM_

Locust takes a sip from his mug, the warmth slowly envelopes him, and he lets out a content sigh. He slowly peels his face off the steaming cup to look up to his mentor.

The man nods his head in greeting before sliding in the seat across from him. His mentor slowly clears his throat before reaching for a bread roll.

"Sorry for this, I just figured it'd be better to talk about it now,"

Locust shakes his head, "I understand."

"That's good. First, why'd you volunteer?"

Locust decides to take a sip of his beverage, using it as a mask to buy some time. What should he say? Would exposing those who essentially hired him, nullify their deal? Would they vindictively kill his family? He'd rather they didn't it would defeat his whole purpose being here.

Ultimately, it's a risk he'd rather not take. At least, he does have a convenient excuse.

"My friend was reaped. I owed him," Locust eventually says simply.

"Really? Just like that? One hell of a friend you are," Erik says, clearly skeptical.

Locust shrugs, "I guess I am."

Erik pensively bites into the bread roll, "let's get to business. I looked over the recaps for you. 4's useless, no careers. It pinches their pack quite a bit. They'll want to replenish them. You have two options. Join them, or make a counter alliance to take them out."

Locust simply stares, betraying nothing on how he may feel. In reality, he didn't even consider the second option. That's too much work, assuming he could even find people good enough to tackle trained killers. No, better he merely becomes one instead. Joining up with the careers was his intention from the very beginning. It's a bit surprising that his mentor wants him to forsake his district partner though. He'd imagine camaraderie between district partners was pushed to help both have a good showing during the games.

Then again, he understands why Erik suggests against it. In private too. Hazel Redford, she's kind enough and seemingly unafraid of him and his tattoos. A surprising turn of events, but not entirely a bad one.

Still, her kindness is hardly a boon for the games, it may very well be detrimental for her. Kindness and compassion are useless in an arena. Her size and age even more so. She'd simply drag him down if he worked with her.

No other way around it.

"I will join the career alliance," Locust explains.

"Really now? You may be big, but size doesn't mean everything, not to them," Erik counters.

Locust tilts his head in confusion, "what beats size?"

"Technique and experience, something careers have more than you."

"No. Not experience."

Erik shakes his head disbelievingly, looking numbly at his tribute. He starts to chuckle nervously.

"Ah shit, you've trained for the games, haven't you?"

"No."

"Okay, then what do you mean by experience? You've fought someone? I'm talking more than just some street brawl. Don't get me wrong, I don't doubt you win those. But brats can't do shit to you, I'm talking about people coming at you with the intention to kill, can you do the sa-"

"Yes."

"…Locust, did someone try to kill you?"

"Yes."

"And did you…"

"Yes."

"Shit" Erik mumbles under his breath, "you're one of those crazy bastards huh? Whatever, it doesn't matter in the end. If you win, I'm done with this shit, so," he stops to shrug lazily before fetching another bread roll.

"Are you good with any weapon then?" Erik asks after finishing a large bite.

"I hunt with a crossbow, I can use axes well."

"Of course you can, who in 7 can't use axes well. Whatever that should be good enough to get in. But, they'll probably want to kill you early since you'll pose a big ass threat to them."

"I understand. Is that all you wished to discuss?" Locust asks.

"Yeah. You've given me a lot of shit to think about, get some rest, trust me, you won't be able to get much of that once you're apart of the career pack."

"Thank-you," Locust nods his head in gratitude before finishing his mug in one large gulp.

He stands from the table and nods towards his mentor. He slowly makes his way back to his room. He wonders if sharing that much to his mentor was a good idea. Ultimately, he decides it won't matter. It's not like they could convict him now. What purpose would it serve? Either way, it's better to talk about his life and personal struggles rather than the strange deal the man in the suit gave him.

* * *

_POV – Cyrus Waterlily_

_10:01PM_

There's a knock on her door, waking her from her light sleep. She blinks blearily and slowly rubs the sleep from her eyes. She slips out of bed and opens the door to the sight of her mentor, Coral. Cyrus smiles warmly at the girl.

"A bit early for morning, don't you think?" She teases lightly.

Coral exasperatedly sighs, although a smile plays at her lips, "nothing like that, we're here."

Cyrus' brows raise, and she quickly nods, "let me change out of this then."

Her mentor nods in return and waits outside as she closes the door. Cyrus doesn't waste any time, slipping into her reaping clothing. She steps out of the room and follows Coral who beckons her with a small wave. The two enter the main car. Cyrus can't help herself as her curiosity takes hold, she slowly gravitates towards the window.

Despite it being dark out, with a night sky, the city is so bright. Lights shine in the distance, illuminating the buildings. It reminds her a bit of a lighthouse. The train slowly enters a tunnel, and complete darkness takes them for a few seconds before abrupt brightness. Cyrus instinctively squints.

The sound of cheering startles her, and she leans even closer to the window. The station is filled with people waving and shouting, eager smiles on their faces. It startles Cyrus for a moment. But she quickly recovers. She smiles brightly and waves towards the crowd, finding the attention although strange, not entirely unwelcomed.

She hears a scoff and turns from the windows to look at the other four with her. Erasmus is busily eating food at the table, simply ignoring everything around him. Florian and Coral more or less seem pleased with her actions, but her district partner, Calder looks dismissive. She tilts her head in confusion. She can't think of something that could have angered or annoyed him.

She doesn't get the change to ask him or think about it as the train stops with a subtle jerk. The door hisses open and a ramp shoots down to meet the station floor. Erasmus finally stands, dabbing around his mouth with a napkin before he clears his throat.

"Please, follow me," he says, not waiting to see if anyone listens.

"Keep waving and smile, ignore Calder yeah?" Coral suggests.

Cyrus nods. She exits from the train car and has to instinctively blink and squint again. This time, although quite bright inside the station, the flashing of lights startles her. Cameras aren't used often in 4, even less so when out in the ocean.

Despite that, she finds herself smiling brightly. The uproar it causes makes her a bit giddy. She really wasn't expecting this kind of reception. Peacekeepers create a wall on both sides, preventing anyone from trying to touch her. It's an odd contrast to what peacekeepers are normally there for.

The peacekeepers carve a path for her to use, although they do so far kindlier than one would have seen in say, district 4. Gentle 'pardons ma'am' or 'sir; and slight nudging, but never using their weapons to brain any exuberant Capitolites. It makes smiling a bit harder, seeing the jarring difference. Peacekeepers in the districts aren't well renown, or positively received. Yet here, they appear to be nothing more than nuisances to the people.

The tributes, mentors and escort are ushered into a large black truck. The cushions are soft, Cyrus notes. It's also a rather large vehicle, bigger than her own personal boat she uses for small excursions. The truck has three rows of seats, the first for the peacekeeper driver and Erasmus. Second row for the tributes and a Peacekeeper in between the two and the final for the mentors and a final peacekeeper.

Cyrus isn't sure how to feel about being so close to a rifle. She doesn't let any visible signs of her discomfort show at least. Calder, on the other hand, looks fidgety, and his gaze fixes itself perpetually on the barrel of the gun.

She'd try to cheer him up, but, he's proven to be a bit difficult to talk to. Also, she wouldn't feel too comfortable talking over a peacekeeper anyways, even if these ones are here to keep them protected.

The drive is done in silence, with only Coral and Florian discussing things in hushed tones at the back. Cyrus looks out the window, staring at the nightlife with unrestrained wonder. It's beautiful, the lights make the city glow. The buildings soar high into the sky too, even when she ducks and tries to peer towards the top, she can't quite see it.

It's a fascinating experience. Before long, the car pulls into a building and they park in an underground parking lot. The group files out of the vehicle and are taken towards an elevator. Cyrus has never been on an elevator and allows her excitement to show with a grin as it rises. The elevator's doors and walls are made entirely of glass with doors on both ends. She looks through the glass walls, watching as the concrete is soon replaced with a large marble-floored lobby.

She's captivated by the massive chandelier at the ceiling, but even then, the elevator continues rising. It soon leaves the lobby behind. A roof replaces it which then spills out to reveal the rest of the city. The lobby is only two floors's tall it seems. It's almost as if two buildings were attached together with the elevator in between them. She looks behind her and sees the number 3 in neon green slowly pass her by. Cyrus smiles widely as she turns back to stare at the night sky.

"Haha, Coral had the same dopey grin on her face when she saw it," Florian says, chuckling softly.

"Put a sock in it, I did not," She denies vehemently.

Cyrus turns to look at her mentors, giggling at their antics.

"District 4 doesn't look anything like this," She says to the two of them.

Erasmus nods, agreeing with her. Calder clicks his tongue in frustration and looks away. Cyrus frowns, normally people wouldn't be this adamantly against being nice to her. She was starting to get annoyed the truth be told.

The elevator stops at a large navy blue 4. The glass door parts down the middle at the exact same time the number does, revealing a massive floor. Where the train was cute, cozy but luxuries. This room was extravagant and overkill.

There whole back wall was made of glass, giving a nice view of the street below. To the right, a hallway that led to more rooms, the bedrooms most likely. A bit closer, a bar with stools lined up on the counter. In front of said bar, a dining table for 6. On the other side, a small pool. Just before the wall of windows, a huge TV was placed on a stand, with a couch formation that made a massive U shape facing it. The walls that weren't windows were decorated with paintings.

Cyrus is left shocked speechless. Even Calder's eyes go wide at the reveal.

"I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but it seems your prep teams are ready now. So You two are needed downstairs," Erasmus explains pocketing a phone as he addresses the tributes.

Cyrus tilts her head confusingly, prep team? She doesn't remember that in the games. The Parade came first, didn't it?

* * *

_POV – Cooper Dawson_

_6:07AM _

Cooper wakes up early, as he always did. This time was different, the humming sound of the bulleting train quickly sapped the grogginess from his consciousness. He raises from the bed, rubbing his eyes. The unfamiliar scenery still throws him off. The room feels cold, Cooper finds, it lacks the coziness that came from his compact wooden room.

This metal cage, on the other hand, feels too constricting, like livestock. He sighs at the idea and slips on the same clothing from his reaping. The fancy weird showering machine in his bathroom is just way too confusing to use. All of those buttons and weird images made it all the more confusing to use.

The moment he did turn the water on, it was so freezing it scared the desire to shower out of him. He shakes his head at the unpleasant memory and files out of his room. He walks down the hallway into the main car.

He's pleased to see food is already laid out on the table. Different kinds than what was shown before. Cooper remains captivated by the tantalizing aroma, he finds himself gravitating towards the food. He quickly takes a seat, fetches for a plate and starts to pile foods on top.

He normally doesn't get the chance to eat breakfast until 9, since he's usually working with the dogs until then. The thought instantly puts a damper on his mood, a frown forming his face. His mom is forced to do his chores now that he's gone. It makes him sad just thinking about it, the allure of the food faltering.

He starts to poke and prod at his food, his brows furrowing as he starts to feel homesick. He misses his mom, he misses his friends, he misses working with the dogs. He misses 10.

"Oh, hello Cooper, you're an early riser?" A voice called out to him from the car entrance.

Cooper turns and faces the newcomer and nods quickly. He recognizes him as his mentor, Baxton. The large man smiles softly at the boy and takes a seat across from him.

"How are you holding up?" He asks.

Cooper frowns. Is it showing so obviously on his face? Or is his behaviour different? Whatever the case, he isn't sure he wants to talk about it. Homesickness just feels like too much of a personal problem, a minor one to cause his mentor any trouble.

"I'm fine," he says softly.

He shoves a mouthful of scrambled eggs into his mouth, giving him an opportunity to distract himself with the fluffy wonderful taste.

"If you say so. Trust me though, don't bottle things up. It's not good for you," Baxton stresses seriously, he fetches a pitcher full of water and pours himself a cup.

Cooper watches wordlessly as his mentor grabs a small bottle from his pocket. The bulky man spins the top off and pours himself a pair of pills. He takes them and washes it down with his cup before pocketing the bottle again.

"Are you sick sir?" Cooper eventually asks, feeling concerned for his mentor.

Baxton shrugs, "In a sense, these pills mostly help me deal with my phantom pains," he explains as he gestures towards his stomach.

Cooper winces, recalling vividly the last battle Baxton endured before winning.

"But, I talk to a therapist to help me deal with my nightmares," he continues, staring seriously at the young boy.

Cooper finds the revelation surprising. But, after some thought. He thinks it shouldn't be. Baxton constantly has bags under his eyes, and he's usually very soft-spoken and or quiet like he's not entirely invested in the conversation.

He has a few nervous ticks to him, and they usually manifest only when speaking with their escort, Glaphyra. But he seems fine when he talks to Destry, Miss Paulina or himself. It makes Cooper think that his mentor simply feels uncomfortable around Capitol things. Then again, Glaphyra is very persistent and acts like Baxton's personal stalker, so he may just be uncomfortable around her alone. Still, the nightmares, the phantom pains, those are crippling things, as to why Baxton told him, it's pretty clear. He wants Cooper to talk.

"I don't want to trouble you though, sir," he tries one last time.

Baxton shakes his head, "no trouble at all. Talk to me, it's just the two of us here."

Cooper takes a deep breath and steadies himself. Then, he starts to voice his thoughts, air his problems. He struggles at first, feeling awkward talking about it. But he soon gets the ball rolling, and all of his concerns come spilling out.

"I… I miss home, I know it sounds childish, but… I just do. I want to go home, or away from here. I want to help mom prep the kennels, I want to feed the dogs, I want to go exploring with my friends, to do my chores, to go to school. I want to hang out with my dad again. I… I don't think I'm going to get the chance anymore," Cooper finishes softly, his eyes downcast.

Baxton runs a shaky hand through his hair, "I understand how you feel, I was in your shoes last year."

Cooper musters a smile for his mentor. It's different he thinks. But he can't deny it's nice to know someone understands.

"You need to look at what you said as stuff to look forward to, rather than stuff you'll never have again, if you want to come home," Baxton eventually says seriously.

Cooper's throat constricts, but, he slowly nods in understanding. He wants to tell Baxton that he wasn't thinking that way, that he wasn't writing himself off, that he is calm despite how he feels. But he decides that it's more trouble than it's worth. The advice is sound all the same.

"Hey, but it's good to know what you want. I think family is a powerful motivator. It can take you all the way."

"You think so?"

Baxton smiles, "absolutely."

* * *

_POV – Midnight Tyrian_

_9:01AM_

Midnight sits at one of the stools, his fork poking listlessly at the food. He really can't bring himself to eat anything at the moment, still to distracted by last night's events. First off, preparations were a bloody nightmare.

They used tweezers and picked virtually any out of place hair they could find. Not only was it painful, but it was also embarrassing. Being entirely exposed like that, it made him feel vulnerable. He absolutely loathed it. He didn't lash out at them though; he knew it was coming courtesy of his mentor.

Still, 'a little pain and embarrassment' feels like a serious understatement. He still feels raw from it all. Despite that, he can't deny the prep team knows how to make him stand out. He'll let it pass for now. However, if they continue to talk over him, or ignore his questions or concerns, there will be retaliation.

Feeling considerably happier with his resolve made, he finishes his breakfast and heads over to the couch and snaps the TV on. He raises the volume, deciding that if others won't wake up by now, he'd be their pseudo alarm clock.

The channel is reporting on the games. What a shocking turn of events, Midnight thinks with an eye roll. They're showing all of the tributes that have arrived so far. 1-6. 12 arrive around 6 pm. And the Parade begins at 9.

That gives Midnight 12 hours to be bored out of his mind. Well, not completely he realizes with a smirk. He notices someone approach him from the corner of his eye. He turns to face them with a smug grin.

"Ahh, if it isn't the lovely Morrigan Sister. I'm guessing you're feeling aptly refreshed after your beauty sleep?" Midnight says, bowing slightly with a fictitious flourish.

"I've been up for hours," She says simply, stopping just behind the couch.

Midnight's smirk thins, "bullshit," he decides, calling her out.

"Why would I lie? Do you think I care so deeply for your opinion?"

He squints his eyes owlishly at this, but eventually bursts into cackles, she might be telling the truth, but that's hardly what he cares about now. His smirk comes back and he stares straight into her brown eyes.

"Oh yes, you like to think you're free from the opinions of others. We both know you're shackled though," he says, clear amusement in his tone.

Mischa stiffens momentarily, her face quickly becoming void of emotion. A mask, Midnight concludes. Not better than his he assures himself. he relishes in the cracks he made in hers though.

"Strike a little close to home? Oh, of course, I did. It's not easy being everyone's least favourite. Oh, but at least your pretty," Midnight mocks, finishing his sentence with feigned sympathy.

Mischa closes her eyes, and pauses for a second. Midnight lulls back and forth, waiting for her reaction, waiting for her to blow up in his face.

Instead, she shakes her head, "I'd rather you didn't project your insecurities onto me if you can help it."

Midnight freezes, his eyes going wide for a second. He quickly hides it and instead stares at her impassively. His thoughts are momentarily scrambled by her response, and he takes a second to calm himself. Unfortunately, his silence is more telling than anything else he could have said. The way Mischa smiles knowingly infuriates him. Like she has him all figured out.

That pisses him off even more.

"Projecting? Please don't regurgitate things you've read about in textbooks, your lack of comprehension of the concept is painfully showing."

"Schoolyard insults? Very impressive Midnight," Mischa says calmly, almost tiredly.

If these are schoolyard insults Midnight doesn't want to know what she thinks real insults are. Wait, actually, he kind of does. It means he can be way more vicious with her. Although, her almost masochistic patience with his barbs is starting to annoy him.

Why the hell is she always so unflappable. He can barely piss her off. Only mentions of family do the trick. And, now she's starting to read him like he's a pet project of hers. Of course, it had to be family that bothers her.

And now he's thinking of Twilight, that insufferable bitch of a sister. She's already planning on using his 'failure' here at the games as a pedestal to show why she's better, why she'll bring renown and fame to the Tyrian family where he couldn't. He knows because that's exactly what she told him during visitations.

The very thought makes his blood boil. Family can go fuck themselves.

"I strive to please, your highness," He says lazily, his desire to agitate her dissipating for the moment.

She isn't even going to react anyways; he reasons as he flicks through the channels.

Unsurprisingly, everything has to do with the Hunger Games. All 12 channels. It's obvious they only have access to these 12. The Capitol surely has more for entertainment than this. Although, they might just have exciting nightlife and no need for TV.

He shrugs at the thought. That's the extent of it though, his mind can't wander as he can practically feel her burrow her gaze into his skull. He turns to face Mischa, who doesn't even feel abashed at being caught. Instead, she focuses her stare even harder.

"What? Got something you want to say?" He eventually asks, his patience no longer holding out.

"Sure, tell me. Why do you want to compete in these games?" Mischa asks in return.

Midnight blinks for a moment before deciding to laugh boisterously. It helps mask his growing frustrations. She's starting to read him, to pick up on his tells, decipher his façade, learn what makes him tick and that's infuriating him like nothing else could. He's not oblivious to what she's trying to do. She clearly wants to get the upper hand on him, and in doing so, learn how to easily dispatch of him. After all, someone who's vulnerable is easily disposable. He can't allow that, won't allow it. Midnight Tyrian takes everyone by surprise.

He grins at her wickedly, "why not?"

Mischa frowns, clearly disappointed by his response.

"What? Didn't like my answer? Were you expecting me to reveal deep motivations and or hidden truths? It's far simpler than you want to make it out to be. You're a tribute not a shrink, stick to your strengths," he says before pausing to turn away from her.

He's waiting for her to say something. Only so he can have the satisfaction of interrupting her. She doesn't which makes him scowl.

With his gaze lingering on the TV, he continues anyways, "I just want to win. So I will. So, as a fellow tribute from 1, I'll give you this courtesy. Stay out of my way, or get cut down like the rest of them, Morrigan Sister," he finishes smugly, turning to face her again with a positively vicious smirk plastering on his face.

* * *

**AN: train rides done, Although, for some, it wasn't so much train rides and just chilling before the Parade. Speaking of, Parade comes next! This means cross-district interactions are coming up! I'm looking forward to seeing some of these guys talk to one another! Remember, every tribute is getting at least 2 POV's before the Bloodbath starts, but some might appear in more POV's than others. That's not me showing favourites or anything of the sort, that's just how the story panned out. Hope you all understand and enjoy the story nevertheless!**

**On another note, I really hope I managed to get across the imagery for the penthouse/tribute dorms. It's probably not like the movies at all, But I kind of wanted to write them like this. Anyways, just think of it as an elevator in the middle of the building, with a clear division between the lobby and the penthouse floors. The lobby, like mentioned is only 2 floors tall, so the elevators are essentially out in the open air for 10 floors. Kind of like the CN tower elevators? I wasn't sure how to explain that in the POV, so I apologize for this completely unprofessional manner of explaining this. Forgive me plz! **


	15. Opening Ceremonies!

_POV – Hazel Redford_

_7:45PM _

Hazel fidgets nervously as her stylist continues to spray paints her. She keeps her eyes firmly shut, the warning her prep team gave her playing over and over in her mind. Apparently, they could seriously blind her if she opened them, it's incentive enough to keep them closed. After a few minutes, Hazel eventually can feel the difference between limbs with paint and limbs without. The coat of paint feels odd on her skin. Heavy, like a second layer.

"You may open your eyes now darling," the stylist says.

Hazel does so, tentatively. She meets the beaming smile of her stylist. Her eyes trace lower, towards the mirror in the woman's hand. Her face reflects back to her, a vibrant light green.

Her dark brown eyes widen at her transformation. They made her green! She looks at her stylist questioningly.

"We have a costume to go with it my dear, do not be alarmed," the woman explains.

Hazel finds that the snippet of news doesn't placate her worries at all. She doesn't voice her opinion though and instead nods slowly. The stylist practically skips away in eagerness, leaving Hazel to receive some polish from the rest of the prep team.

The dab at her with brushes and massage something into her hair. She finds herself getting overwhelmed, at least this time they didn't do anything painful to her. Just the thought makes her shiver, the moment she stepped off the train, she and Locust were rushed to the prep team, where they proceeded to wax, pluck, alter, maintain and or do whatever they could to make minuscule changes to her body.

It was a haunting few hours.

Some auburn hair falls before her eyes, drawing back her attention. She absolutely hates having her hair in her eyes, too annoying, distracting even. She likes to keep it behind her for that reason.

She slowly reaches for her hair, only to receive a chiding slap on the back of her hands. She instantly reels them back and stares at the prep member through her hair.

"Don't touch, we're not done with you yet."

"B-but… my hair, it's-"

"Exactly where it will stay," the same member responds, he falters marginally looking at Hazel's expression and continues more softly, "don't worry, we'll make you look stunning."

Hazel frowns slightly, she doesn't care about that. She just doesn't want her hair in the way. She doesn't attempt to voice her opinion again, visibly discouraged. They spend a few more minutes, adding minor patterns to her skin with a paint brush. She feels a bit like a canvas. Eventually, the prep team peels out of her personal bubble.

"Please slip this on," the lead stylist says, returning from the other room.

She carries a dress. The first thing Hazel notices is all of the green. Then would be the patterns. The skirt section seems to be made of leaves being layered over top each other. Kind of looks like a tiled roof would. Slightly above, there appears to be vines coiling around her waist like a belt. The top half of her dress on a first impression simply looked green. But looking more closely, she could make out the midrib, lateral and sublateral veins. It's supposed to be one big leaf.

"Here, these accessories really make the whole ensemble," The stylist continues, thrusting a crown made of branches and a rose corsage.

Hazel manages not to break either of them as she takes the items off her stylist, she does fumble a bit and needs someone to catch her before falling. She murmurs a quick apology as she puts the accessories on.

"Perfect! Now you look just like I envisioned it, creatures from old legend."

"Forest nymphs, from old mythos, right!" Hazel exclaims excitedly, happy to relay her trivia.

"Correct darling, you're more learned than I thought," The woman says warmly.

Hazel beams at her with a positively blinding bright smile.

"Now, I'll have someone from my team escort you to the stables. Smile like that, and you'll have the whole Capitol swooning for you my dear," Her stylist says.

The prep team agrees.

Moments later, Hazel feels someone gently pushing her through the door. She takes the hint and starts walking on her own. She's ushered through multiple hallways and down an elevator. She loses track of where she is, thinking this place similar to a labyrinth. Eventually, she's brought through a door and enters a massive room.

She feels a breeze and can quickly tell why. On the other side of the room, like a gaping maw, lies an opening for the chariots to ride through. Torch fires line the exit. The chariots are lined up in the center of the room, already attached to their horses and facing said exit.

A hand gently presses onto her back, prompting her to walk into the room. She turns and sees the prep member waving as they leave. She hesitates but turns back to face the chariots. She notices multiple other people in fancy or weird costumes like her. The other tributes, she wonders if she should go introduce herself.

It's the polite thing to do, she decides, psyching herself up. She slowly, cautiously makes her way to the chariots. 12 is empty, same with 11. However, when she lands on 10, she notices a boy her size leaning on the side of his chariot. He looks from the chariots to her, then back to the chariots. He then quickly snaps his gaze back to her with wide eyes. She smiles ruefully, green skin will be pretty eye-catching she reasons. Despite that, he gives a small nod in greeting. Hazel smiles in turn, he seems nice.

"Hello, my name is Hazel, what's yours?" She greets.

"Cooper, nice to meet you Hazel," He responds, standing up from his leaning position.

"Likewise!" She says happily.

Although Locust isn't rude, he's still hard to talk to, his mentor even moreso. Her own spends so much time in the washroom that she rarely even gets to talk to her and Roadkill's a bit eccentric. So, to find someone around her age and also easy to talk to is a welcomed change.

"Green skin? Your stylists really went all out," Cooper says.

She nods, "yeah, it was crazy, they had to spray paint the stuff on me."

"Is that safe?" He instantly asks with a quirked eyebrow.

She shrugs "they said they could blind me if I opened my eyes, so I guess not?"

His other eyebrow raises, "huh, well that's cool."

"Your costume looks cool too, a cowboy right?"

Cooper winces as he readjusts his hat, "yeah, very cool."

"You don't like it?"

"I mean, I probably can't come up with anything better, but it's not very original, ya know?"

"Ooh, I get it. Well, if its uniqueness that you worry about, why not try to do something to stand out?"

Cooper tilts his head, but his curiosity is obviously piqued, "like what?"

Hazel furrows her brows, "well, what if instead of riding on the chariot, you rode the horse instead?"

Hazel admittedly hasn't watched the hunger games, so she doesn't know how original the idea is. But, she doubts it's done often, the horses don't have saddles. But, if anyone can ride them, it'd be people from 10, right?

"I mean, cowboys aren't fully complete without their hat or horse," Hazel explains when Cooper remains silent.

"You know, that doesn't sound like a bad idea. There aren't any rules that say you can't. None that I know of. A little adventure won't hurt anybody. Thanks, Hazel!" Cooper muses before blurting out a thanks.

Hazel smiles warmly, "no problem!"

* * *

_POV – Remy Cartwright _

_8:12PM_

Remy sighs tiredly as he gingerly plays with the plastic gladius in his hands. Its weight is all off, throwing him off more than he'd like to admit. He grew accustomed to wielding the real deal during training.

Still, he thinks it's better than the alternative. His gaze shifts to the side, where his district partner is fumbling with the scales given to her. Gods and goddesses from ancient times is the theme 2 went with. He gets the sword, she the scales. The gladius looks far more tolerable now. The scales are clunky as hell as if made of clay or something. They look heavy too. His district partner seems to be festering in her own embarrassment.

"I feel ridiculous," she confesses.

He chuckles at the remark, yeah, he doesn't envy her. She's wearing revealing clothing, they both are. As their stylists put it, "bodies like yours must be on display". Remy doesn't really care, okay with having his chest bare. But his district partner constantly fidgets and readjusts her robes. They cover her chest at least, but he's given the impression she wasn't allowed to wear a bra. If her hands constantly crossing over said chest is any indication. Which, in his experience is.

He doesn't envy her.

Both their outfits are the equivalent of draping white curtains over one another and calling it a wrap. They both wear wreaths too, which is probably the only thing Remy doesn't find to be strange out of the entire ensemble.

"Anyways, I'm going to go meet up with 1, have fun streaking for all of us," Remy says offhandedly, jumping from the back of the chariot.

He hears some angry grumbling, but he can't make out what she says. Probably for the best given her death glare. He smiles easily as he waves, knowing full well it'd piss her off. He turns before seeing her reaction and walks up to district 1's chariot.

His smile falls as he dons on a calculative gaze. These two are the others that make up the career pack. That being said, he won't shy away from dropping them like a sack of flour if they aren't good enough. He won't accept anything but exceptional.

After all, this is his alliance. No one else. As if it could be anyone else's. Kyra doesn't seem to care, and she doesn't have a single bone in her for leadership. He's perfectly okay with that, quite happy with it. As long as she does as she's told, they'll get along swimmingly, He might even keep her around past the final 8, who knows?

But he digresses, he examines the two tributes from 1. The boy glowers at nothing in particular, clearly unhappy to be here. The girl on the other hand, looks quite indifferent. Their costumes are pretty standard, more fitting found during the interviews. The girl wears a silver dress adorned with pretty gems, the boy a suit. Vanilla as vanilla can get, their stylists played it very safe. Admittedly, what he's wearing is considered safe for 2 as well, despite how risqué is it in nature. Both, however, carry themselves with the confidence befitting a career. That's a good sign at least, if not a small one.

"Hey there, enjoying yourselves?" Remy asks, casually strolling up and leaning against their chariot.

"Can't you tell, flipping elated to be here," The boy answers dryly, twirling a finger lazily for emphasis.

"Mischa Morrigan, pleased to make your acquaintances," the girl greets professionally.

"Spoken like royalty, as expected from a Morrigan Sister," the boy comments, chuckling to himself afterward.

Remy's gaze shifts from him to Mischa, her mouth thin at her partner's remark, but she doesn't say anything. Remy raises an eyebrow, their dynamic is interesting, history between them? Is this how they flirt?

No, Remy dismisses it immediately. He knows what flirting looks like. The guy's just being annoying for annoying sake. Not that said behavior bothers Remy, he's pretty similar in that regard. But, what really debunks the flirting theory is the patience coming from Mischa. It's not one you'd have for someone you hold affection for, but rather a child you need to babysit. He's familiar with that look, came from Memnon one too many times, to be honest.

Their dynamic is interesting. So long as it remains that way and doesn't become a liability, he could care less how they treat each other. Hell, it'll be interesting to watch her snap and kill the guy.

"Sorry to interrupt your lovers spat, head to floor 2 after the parade. Oh, and after you make up that is," Remy teases.

He breaks into laughter looking at the dual deadpan stares he receives. Now they seem to agree on something? What a nice reaction. Remy waves as he heads back to his own chariot, mirthfully laughing as he hauls himself up beside Kyra.

She looks at him questioningly, expectantly, which is funny given how she's also trying not to flash him. He knows why. Just looking at her it's obvious to tell. She's got a thing against 1. He can't blame her either, 1's become cocky over the years. It makes even less sense since they haven't won recently. Unwarranted confidence pisses him off.

He wouldn't oppose to putting them in their place. He turns to face his black-haired partner. She, in turn, stares at him unblinkingly, marginally nudging her head forward, beaconing him to say something. So, he does.

"When it comes down to it. We can take them. Easily."

* * *

_POV – Harvest Henderson _

_8:51PM_

Harvest readjusts the straw for what feels like the tenth time in as many minutes. To give him the authentic scarecrow look, they stuffed straw into his clothing. It pokes out, from the tunic he's made to wear.

The design is simple, he likes simple, reminds him of home. He can't say the same about Sela's costume. He can't actually tell what approach they were going for. She's dressed in all black. Long black eyelashes, heck it appears they even dyed her hair black too. She doesn't appear too uncomfortable about it though, so he applauds her for having an open mind about things.

He probably wouldn't care too much about his own appearance, but he's been told that's something girls normally fret about.

"Have you tried talking to the other tributes?" Harvest asks.

He knows the answer, of course, she has. They've been on stand by in this room for nearly an hour now. The Parade starts at 9, preparations need to be completed by 8, as the stylists kept reminding him. Prevent any emergencies or the sort.

He's spent his whole time by the chariot, not really wanting to talk to others. He spoke when spoken to mostly. The boy from 11 seemed very professional. Not too friendly, but not openly hostile. The boy from 12 was very friendly on the other hand. Harvest couldn't help but be guarded.

Whereas the former could be hiding something with his neutral approach, the latter is trying to distract him. That he's certain of.

Either way, Harvest made sure to greet them, and answered their questions as best as he could. The conversations quickly petered out. The two of them were very respectful when they excused themselves at least.

"I did. The pair from 8 are nice, but not taking the situation very seriously," Sela answers.

Harvest tilts his head in confusion, "what do you mean by that?"

The only response he receives is a point of the finger. He follows it and looks in front of him. The two tributes from 8 are dressed up as balls of yarn. They're talking quietly to themselves before suddenly the boy wraps some yarn around his neck, pretending it to be a noose. The girl rolls her eyes but laughs at him anyways.

Harvest remains perplexed, he coughs, masking his confusion and moves along with the topic.

"What about the others?"

"I didn't talk to the girl from 10, she just seems a bit unapproachable," Sela explains.

This time, the two of them turn to look behind them. The girl from 10 is sighing tiredly as she talks to her partner about something. For whatever reason though, they're not on the chariot but besides the horses.

Still, she carries herself very aggressively, so Harvest doesn't fault Sela for not talking to her.

"Anyone else?"

Sela shakes her head, "I mostly spent my time with 8, we did go up to greet 6. But, the girl's kind of prickly. Boy seems nice, he liked the attention. But, I don't believe they'd make good allies though," she says softly.

"I see," Harvest says.

He doesn't trust her entirely, he doesn't trust anyone so easily. But, he doubts she'd lie about this. Her resolve to win these games is steadfast, almost inspiring even.

Sela seems done with her report, so he goes into giving his, "Boys from 11 and 12 spoke to me, 11 is respectful. 12 is friendly. Both are better at expressing themselves than I."

Sela nods in understanding, "that's good, we can talk to them tomorrow."

"Agreed. 12 looks thin, 11 abled. Might want to pursue an alliance with 11."

"That's good! We can approach 8 or 11 for an alliance. Maybe even both, a group of 6 would certainly improve our chances," She says happily, clapping her hands together.

"I concur. Tomorrow during training then, we can split up and approach them? Or do you want to do so together?"

Sela furrows her brows as she runs a finger through the tips of her new black hair. She seems far too deep in thought for what Harvest feels is an innocuous question. Regardless, he patiently waits for her to answer.

"Together. If we show a face of unity, they might be more inclined to take our proposal seriously. Well, more so than they already would," She says eventually.

"Very well. Who do you wish to approach first?"

"8, If only because I've spoken to them a bit already. They seem easy to get along with," she explains.

Harvest nods his head. He personally doesn't mind who he adds to their alliance as long as they don't actively worsen it. Even those with aggressive personalities would be fine. He knows the games are stressful and wouldn't fault them for it. He believes Sela would feel the same.

What he wants in an alliance is just people who can help him get through the bloodbath. Statistically, the first minute of the Games is where everyone has the last opportunity to interact with one another. The last moment all 24 tributes will be alive. The chances of survival are low, but they improve if fewer people are out to target him. Allies who need him as much as he needs them, that's the alliance he wants. He doesn't believe he'll ever trust anyone during these games. However, he can trust people's intentions and motivations, those tend to be quite honest.

"Tributes to your chariots, the opening ceremonies will begin in one minute," a feminine robotic voice sounds throughout the room.

Harvest snaps from his musings. He starts to look around the room, trying to make out where the voice comes from, but It sounds almost as if it emanates from underneath him.

"Remember what Aspasia said," Sela reminds him.

Harvest nods. Smile, first impressions are essential, and looking confident is crucial in forming a good one. Wave to the crowd too, that'll make them at least interested in him. He takes a steadying breath as the chariot lurches forward.

The Parade begins.

* * *

_POV – Calder Lynch _

_9:01PM _

Just breathe. That's all he needs to do, breathe and keep his eyes straight, ignore the cheers, ignore the crowds, the flashes- just breathe.

Calder grips onto the chariot like a lifeline. His throat is dry, he won't deny it. He's nervous. Scared even, he's being presented to his killers like livestock. His life has a price tag to it, and he can't help but feel as if people are eagerly betting on him, or against.

Definitely against.

A reaped tribute from 4 is usually frowned upon, but to have 2 is sending a message.

Disposable. Worthless. Bloodbaths.

It frustrates him. Why couldn't a suicidal dumbass volunteer for him? He shakes his head and crushes the thought. He realizes how entitled it sounds.

He goes back to staring straight ahead, whenever his eyes wander to the sea of people, he starts to sweat, his hands getting clammy and his flight or fight instincts flaring. He just wants to duck or throw himself off the chariot. Unfortunately, they're going too fast, and well, he'd probably get shot for that kind of stunt. His family too if he's thinking about it seriously. It makes him frown.

"Pretend they're naked, it'll make it easier. Besides, they're probably doing the same to you," Cyrus says from beside him.

He splutters then shivers at the thought, his eyes lingering from 3's chariot to the crowd again. His gaze traitorously soaks up the audience. The manic gazes, the ravenous cheering, the rosy cheeks, and caked faces. They look like clowns, he huffs as he returns his gaze back to the front.

He hears Cyrus giggle as she smiles and waves to the crowd. He frowns seeing it. She's way too easy-going about things. It's like she's happy to be here. It creeps him out, reminds him too much of the psychos who volunteer for the games. He wouldn't wish anyone to go die in the games, but the fact those psychos volunteer to do so wins them absolutely zero sympathies from him.

Maurea probably wouldn't approve his quick dismissal of Cyrus. But he doesn't want to chance it. She may have been reaped, but what's to stop her from being trained, being eager? She looks eager right now. Her smile is glowing, she's eating up the attention. Would a reaped tribute normally behave like that?

Calder shakes his head. No, he won't be allying with her. Anyone like that can't be right in the head.

Unfortunately, with his thought done, he's forced to pay attention to his situation again. Being literally paraded for all of the world to see. His embarrassment and nervousness return twofold.

He wants to hide his face under his hands. He almost instinctively does but has to remind himself not to. The scaly gloves he's wearing are rough to the touch, he'd probably accidentally scuff his skin. His stylists would tear into him if he did. The thought makes him grimace.

The chariots eventually reach the end of the path, they slowly line up from 1-12 in front of a large building. Almost 3 or 4 storeys tall, Calder squints as he makes out the shape of a man slowly standing and marching up to a podium.

The man raises his hands, suspends them for a second before slowly bringing them down. When doing so, he manages to silence the crowd. The deafening cheers subside. Yet, for Calder a low ringing lingers in his ears, the crowd was simply that loud.

Calder soon realizes just who this man is. President Nova, leader of Panem. Bastard that's ruining district lives daily. He scowls at the man, his fists clenching and going white at the knuckles.

"Greetings tributes, we welcome you to the Capitol!" President Nova introduces with a joyful tone.

Cheers erupt from all around him. It makes Calder sick. All of these people are insane, to enjoy the blood sport, to go into a frenzy at the mere thought of it. But none are sicker than the bastard at the podium, he's the sickest of them all.

"Happy Hunger Games to you all! May the odds be in your favour," he finishes with a deceptively innocent smile.

Calder glares frigidly at the man, not that he notices. The president seems to be soaking in the cheers as if he's said something warranting such a reaction. As if proving his defiance, Calder refuses to peel his cold gaze off the president, even after the chariots move again and enter another building.

The chariots stop at a designated spot and he hopes off unceremoniously, simply glad to be done with the whole ordeal. He rips off his gloves and tosses them at the back of the chariot. He felt ridiculous wearing those things. He sits at the end of the carriage and starts to work on his boots too. He notices a few people approach him from the corner of his eye. He recognizes them as his mentors, escort and stylists respectively, his mouth thins. He has a feeling he's disappointed them.

He immediately curses himself for feeling that way. He knows he wasn't cooperative and didn't cater to the Capitolites, but why should he? Those sick bastards don't care about him, he shouldn't do the same. Sure, he won't actively screw his own chances, but the mere thought of smiling at those psychotic freaks is enough to make him gag.

"Good job Cyrus, people love you," Coral says.

Cyrus beams at her, "thanks, that was a pretty nerve-wracking experience though,"

"Yeah, I can remember my own opening ceremonies like it was yesterday. It's pretty overwhelming if you aren't expecting it right?" Florian adds.

"Nope, it's overwhelming regardless!" She shots back with a grin.

The two break into laughter. Calder can't imagine why; she didn't say anything funny. He doesn't even know why she's getting all comfortable with his mentor too, is she trying to sabotage him? He dismisses the idea quickly enough, she's just really talkative. It's just too strange for him to deal with, who's this talkative when at death's door? It just doesn't make any sense to him. He doubts it ever will.

* * *

_POV – Adalyn Plumm _

_9:58PM_

Adalyn paces anxiously around the room, fussing over the parade and her actions. She can't help it; the parade is to create a good first impression. She waved, she even smiled, but, at the end of the day, was it enough? She thought so at first.

But, seeing those from 10 ride their horses rather than their chariot. It was that kind of quick thinking that drew attention, that retained attention. What's a smile from a girl dressed as bee in comparison?

And boy, is that not another can of worms she'd rather not open. Just her wicked luck that Melissa knows her stylist. And that the two of them have a weird fixation on bees. Bees don't even play a significant role in her district. She's getting embarrassed just thinking about the ridiculous bee costume again. Antennas, wings and all. Harrison's barely contained laughter kind of pissed her off too. The fact he pretended to keep a straight face was what really frustrated her.

"Is something troubling you Adalyn?" Harrison asks, from the couch.

His focus remains on the book in his hands, but he still somehow manages to notice her. She's not being very quiet she realizes, and instantly laments how disruptive her behaviour is.

"N-no, nothing," She quickly says.

It seems Harrison manages to notice her strained tone and places the book down. He stares at her intently. The look reminds her a bit of an admonishing teacher, which both serves to embarrass and anger her. She knows its impolite to dump your own problems on someone, a stranger no less. She's being nice! Putting him first. His expectant stare makes her sigh. Fine, if he wants to know so bad, she'll tell him. But he better not get mad, he's asking for it after all!

"10 was the most creative district out there, they completely outshone us."

Harrison hums, "that is true, I must admit, playing their cowboy roles so literally paid dividends for them."

"Exactly! No one even noticed us," Adalyn says.

Harrison leans back into the couch and raises a hand, he teeters in back and forth, "not exactly."

Adalyn purses her lips as she quirks an eyebrow, "what do you mean?"

"Despite what you might want to believe, your bee costume was… effective," he pauses to find the right word.

Adalyn stares at him blankly, "You don't have a sense of humour Harrison, don't start now."

"Not my intention. When you compare your tracker jacker costume to my measly farmer overalls, you pop out, glaringly so," he says evenly.

She's not naïve though, a bit of frustration bleeds through in his tone. He's clearly unhappy about his costume. Frankly, she would have preferred to change with him. After all, the bee costume kind of solidifies the notion that she really did use tracker jackers to kill that man.

Her costume paints the picture of someone impishly dangling something just out of reach. It feels like she conned her district, lied to them. And now that she's in the Capitol, she's revealing her treacherous behaviour now that they can't do anything to her. She feels kind of guilty, regretting ever stumbling on the corpse.

Which she finds to be completely backward given how she hasn't done anything but be honest! Why is she even feeling guilty for something she didn't do? She was just the person to find the body, why is she punished for that? Seriously, the people in her district can be so flipping stupid it's unbearable!

She snaps her eyes close and takes a steadying breath. She starts mentally counting to 10, letting her bubbling anger slowly ebb away.

"As I was saying, you likely garnered some attention to yourself. The Capitolites hardly know your story, they simply think you look nice, or interesting, or at worst, better than me," Harrison explains simply.

Adalyn nods slowly, not sure if he's just trying to cheer her up or telling the truth. He does sound a bit bitter though, so he's probably being honest. It at the very least makes her feel much better about herself, and tonight's parade.

Just thinking back on it gives her second-hand embarrassment. Aforementioned bee costume aside, waving to so many people was stress-inducing. The ambiance, the loud cheers, and bright lights did little to make her feel at ease either.

"I… I see,"

"Glad we managed to resolve that," Harrison says, picking up his book again.

Adalyn watches as he engrosses himself in his book, seemingly nodding along to something he agrees with. She decides to sit beside him, sighing comfortably as she lays on the soft cushions.

"Hey, I know I'm disrupting your reading, but I wanted to ask you something."

Harrison folds the tip of a page before closing the book again. He turns to face her with a patient gaze. He nods his head slowly, signaling that he's listening.

"Okay, so I don't really know how to go about asking this bu-"

"An alliance, right?"

"Let me finish damn it! I-I mean, yes, an alliance, if you want?" she finishes lamely, appearing almost sheepish with her outburst.

"I don't oppose, but. I'll admit I didn't expect you to want to form an alliance with me," he answers naturally.

What the hel- okay, she can see where he's coming from. She nods her head in understanding. She also grimaces thinking of her recent behaviour. She really needs to reel it in. Sometimes though, she just can't help it. Her whole life she's been told to be a 'good girl', to do as her dad says, to keep her head down and appease society.

If society wasn't a serious piss off, she might have considered it. But, her ostracization at the hands of said society really turned her away from doing things 'for the people'. Her drunk dad did little to make her respect her alleged superiors either. Respect is something earned, not given, and that's all everyone ever expects from her.

To give and give. It only makes sense that she takes the most natural form of coping. Anger and frustration. It's so gratifying in the moment that she can't help but lash out from time to time. It doesn't make it right though. And given her situation, being in these games, not reigning in her temper could very well be the last thing she does.

"Sorry, I… I'll improve," Adalyn says resolutely.

* * *

_POV – Vortex Senna _

_10:29PM _

Vortex watches the TV numbly. He's bored out of his mind, all that's showing is just the parade over and over again, from different angles on the occasion, sometimes commentary from Augustus Flickerman, but otherwise nothing new.

Sure, it was interesting for the first few times. But he can only watch 12 chariots ride down a straight line from so many angles before it loses its luster. He sighs as he watches 5 ride down in their satellite get up.

"Ah, and here comes 6. They appear to be dressed as pilots, very nice reference to their district, the district of transportation," Augustus says.

That's all he says though before transitioning to 7. With far more vigor and enthusiasm. What is a nymph anyways? No one cares about 6 now when compared to the cutely dressed girl and titan looking guy. Their juxtaposition really brings out their more prominent traits too. His steadfast gaze, his meaty arms, his grizzled face. Her shy smiles, her petite stature, her child-like wonder. They couldn't be more opposite. It makes them stand out amazingly. Vortex feels anxious just seeing it. Augustus is lathering praise, happy to see a refreshing change for once.

It makes Vortex grimace, of course, he's naturally sidelined. People probably don't even give a shit about 6, why would they, it's the worst place in all of Panem. 12 and 11 may be poor, but nothing presents corruption better than 6. Going out alone is paramount to begging someone to mug you. And the drug wars that go on through the lower sections of 6 are so bloody, peacekeepers forego going there altogether. Peacekeepers don't do shit in lower 6, much preferring to stay in their barracks. It's laughable as much as it's reasonable.

They only leave when it comes to executing someone or getting in on the mugging themselves. If he had to choose, he'd honestly take his chances with the gangs, at least he can fight back without getting his family and friends executed in the process. Admittedly, he'd sooner off himself than waltz into lower 6, much safer that way.

Middle and upper 6 aren't nearly as bad, but drugs are prominent no matter where you go. His parents blow all their money on weed. There are worse drugs to be addicted to. Besides, he has a nicotine addiction, which is probably worse in the long run.

Well, it would have been. He doubts it'll matter too much now.

He runs a hand through his short black curly hair. Speaking of tobacco, he could really go for some right about now, would really help ease his nerves. He looks behind him, his gaze lingering at the bar.

Tabacco might be impossible to acquire now, but alcohol is easily attainable. He stares at the tantalizing bottles. It's tempting but he ultimately decides against it. Jaycee lived for getting shit faced, the backlash ultimately was left to him. Yeah, he wouldn't want someone else to pick up after him. Alcohol, he concludes is for the shameless, no offense to Jaycee. Although, admittedly she's as shameless as shameless come.

"Oh, Vortex? How come you're still up?"

His gaze peels off the bar to look at the hallway beside it. His mentor looks at him with a toothy grin as he waves. Vortex smiles at Icarus and returns the wave before patting the seat beside him. His mentor doesn't waste any time and plops onto the couch. He turns to face Vortex.

"You didn't answer my question by the way."

"Ah, well, you know, bored," he answers flippantly, waving a hand.

"Pesky boredom, I definitely feel you there."

"You do? What do you do to fix that then?"

"Meh, I mostly go bother people, like Karan or Coral."

"Everyone's sleeping right now though," Vortex says.

He's not opposed to annoying others. It can be quite fun when they react. Corolla isn't that fun to tease though, she's quick to anger can be quite scalding with her remarks. Karan on the other hand, that man is quite fun to torment. He pretends to be exemplary in front of Corolla too, so Vortex tends to catch him stuck between wanting to appear gentlemanly and furious. Those reactions are the best.

"Yeah, I suppose that's true. Oh, I know, let's talk about the Hunger Games!" Icarus exclaims happily.

Vortex throat constricts. If there's one thing he'd rather not talk about, it is the games.

"Uh, actually, I think I'm just going to go to-"

"No, you'll stay," Icarus says with a smile.

Vortex furrows his brows. He tries to stand from the couch regardless. A hand grips his arm, he looks at his mentor with wide eyes and is forcefully placed back onto the couch. Vortex stares at Icarus, trying to gauge his intentions. It's hard to read the man. The smile never falters, he doesn't even appear malicious, his eyes still sparkle with excitement.

"We're talking about the Hunger Games now, so stay," his mentor says jovially.

Vortex clenches his teeth, Icarus is acting strangely. It times like these that Vortex regrets not paying attention to his mentor more. He rarely speaks to the guy, he rarely knows what normal entails with Icarus. Regardless, Vortex can safely conclude that he's not liking the forcefulness, the almost controlling nature. He wants to leave, but he doesn't think it's best to run from his mentor. He doubts he can, he nods his head slowly with a guarded gaze.

"That's great! Okay, so. For starters, find some people to work with. You'd die solo. No ifs or buts about that."

Vortex wordlessly agrees, nodding with the assessment even if he doesn't like it. At the same time, he's making sure to at least appear engaging, as to appease his surprisingly eager mentor.

"Corolla might be an easy ally, but I recommend against it. She doesn't seem all that smart, nor that strong. Ultimately, she's kind of useless," Icarus finishes with a laugh.

'Ultimately useless'? Isn't Vortex the same. He doesn't have any skills to help him in the games, he's sociable, might be a good leader, but would it matter when say, face to face with the hulking guy from 7, or a bloody career? Vortex pauses and ponders it for a moment. What if he didn't have to face them at all. Is that what Icarus meant?

"An alliance with someone strong, like the careers?"

"No way, you're the kind of tribute they'd like to kill! Avoid those guys at all costs."

Vortex winces before nodding numbly. He knows he can't actually join their alliance; he was only using them as an example. He isn't sure how to feel about Corolla being blown off so easily too. Sure, they don't get along too well, but Icarus wrote her off as easily as someone would talk about the weather.

"Right, alliance, with people. Is that all?" Vortex asks, eager to leave this conversation already.

Icarus giggles, "of course not! You're bored right? We have so much more to talk about."

Vortex deflates and hardly listens to Icarus break into another string of tips and advice. He can't focus on what his mentor tells him. He's too busy wondering what brought on this kind of behaviour. It feels sudden, almost as if it came out of nowhere. He hears his mentor laugh, likely to one of his own jokes again. He narrows his eyes as he suspiciously looks over his mentor, he starts to see him in a new light, an unsettling one. What if Icarus doesn't joke around to lighten the mood or break the ice. Doesn't like teasing people out of boredom or isn't just an unnaturally joyful person. What if, his smiles aren't happy or warm.

They're unhinged.


	16. Training Sessions: Day 1

_POV – Magnus Flux_

_8:03AM_

Magnus steps out of the shower, his eyes instantly falling onto his made bed. More importantly, the track uniform neatly folded on his sheets. It's a light gray with the inside part of the limbs being black. The tertiary designs are neon green, as is the same colour as the three on the left breast.

He slips it on, knowing it's what he's supposed to wear for the training. OnRush gave him a small rundown of what to expect for years now. That kind of information is hard to forget. He exits the room to the sight of Valla and his mentor talking quietly to one another. They don't notice him so he doesn't greet them.

Instead, he sits down beside them and starts eating from the plate. For some reason, food is always served beforehand. The Avox are quite proficient it seems, the food is nutritious as well, a healthy diet.

"O-oh, Magnus I didn't notice you there," His mentor, Lectro says, sounding a bit spooked.

"It's of no concern, when do we head to the training facility?" Magnus brushes it off.

"Ah, 8:30! I heard it's a wonderful facility that teaches so much," Valla adds.

Lectro looks as if he's seen a ghost, his sunken face looking even more sickly.

From what Magnus can recall, he won his games out of sheer luck. One kill on a 12-year-old in the bloodbaths, another kill strangling a sleeping tribute and his final by surviving the arena's sinking into the ground.

Not a very good showing overall. Lectro isn't a combatant, he was a sneak. Both strategies hold merit, but Magnus is built for combat. His mentor has little to offer him. Besides, Rotemn gave him explicit instructions not to associate with Lectro or Tesla.

The former would ruin their work, the latter would ruin his.

Speaking of, Tesla makes her way into the main room now, wearing the same tracksuit as him. It's made to fit her though, so he's given the impression that each tracksuit is made individually catered towards the specific tribute.

"Hello," she greets tiredly, rubbing the sleep from her eyes still.

Valla squeals, claiming she looks adorable in that. Lectro winces and massages his head, hangover? Peculiar, Magnus would not have guessed him a drunk. Then again, Valla can become quite loud when she shrieks like that.

"Eat you two, we're heading downstairs after that."

Magnus nods and continues eating, ignoring the conversation that follows. He hears snippets from time to time. Sounds like Lectro is explaining what to expect in there. Tesla seems very receptive, he notices. Magnus finishes, thrusting the plate slightly forward.

"Am I free to go now? Or must I wait for you to accompany me?" He asks after dabbing a napkin to his mouth.

"Your manners are so impeccable," Valla chimes in.

"Er, I… sure, you can go to the lobby, ground floor. All the tributes need to gather there anyways."

"Thank you," He answers, standing from the table.

He bows his head slightly before making his way to the elevator. The trip down is uneventful, no one is in the elevator with him. When the doors slide open, he finally steps out and makes his way to the lobby.

The chandelier brightly lights up the room. The windows only seem to be on the first floor anyway, so natural light requires the compensation. Regardless, from where he stands, he notices a few others have already gathered.

Some sit at the few sofas, others lean against pillars, and the rest awkwardly loiter in the middle of the marble floor.

Their tracksuits are similar to his. Gray body, blackish undersides on the limbs. The main difference being their accents are of different colours.

10's is white. 1's red, 2's yellow, so on and so forth. It seems they're colour coded.

He, not wanting to interact with anyone makes his way to a lone pillar and decides to lean against it, much like the boy from 2 is doing. He closes his eyes and runs through his plan for the day.

Or lack thereof. He plans to lay low, not to bring much attention to himself. Survival skills do that best, he'll try to learn about the wilderness. From what he recalls, hints of the arena tend to be present during the training sessions.

Edible plants can give away the region the arena's based off. Or, a lack of edible plants can give away the general state. One won't learn about edible plants only to be thrown into a winter wasteland. Those games, as old as they are had a horrible showing.

A lapse of judgement the Capitol rectified from then on out. They don't shy away from environmental deaths, or survival ones as Raleed puts it. But, they don't want 14 of the 24 to freeze to death because they were taught how to start a fire with wood and or which berries are poisonous.

Magnus opens his eyes, satisfied with the plan. Not only for today, but every day. He intends to fall off the radar, to not even warrant a second glance from those around him. During the private sessions is when he will truly show his talents. Impressing those that matter is something he firmly remembers being imprinted on him.

"Good, that's everyone, gather please," Someone says.

In the silence of the lobby, it travels, echoes even. Magnus steps from the pillar and makes his way to the man surrounded by peacekeepers.

"I'll save introductions for when we're there, for now. Please follow me."

The man turns and heads back towards the receptionist. Magnus didn't understand her purpose the first time he entered this building, although admittedly he didn't step into the lobby during said time. Then again, he didn't know what purpose a residence needs a lobby for.

Until now it seems. The woman types away on her keyboard, and then suddenly to the side of her, the walls part. Magnus quirks an eyebrow as he sees an entrance form. The tributes buzz around him, shifting in place, mumbling to themselves. He doesn't know why though.

Either way, the man makes a waving gesture and marches in with his entourage of peacekeepers. Magnus and a few others follow instantly.

Whereas the lobby appears graceful with the chandelier, red velvet couches, and marble floor. This new room looks practical and streamlined. Steel barren walls and steel flooring. They walk down the hallway for a few seconds before it opens outwards, expanding into a large facility. Magnus allows his eyes to wander. Stations seem to line the walls, with a- what he assumes is an expert in the respective field. To the right, elevated a bit is a small carved out lounge area.

Where the gamemakers watch them, he concludes easily. To the far left, an obstacle course and in the center, a platform with racks of weaponry. He knows where to avoid.

"Attention please, My name is Tullius, I am the Head Trainer here," Tullius introduces.

Tullius looks bland. He has short-cropped hair and a small shadow. He looks fit, his muscles showing through his silver tracksuit. In conclusion, he's unmemorable, at least when comparing to the standard Capitolite.

"I know you'll like to gravitate towards the weapons over there but trust me when I tell you that you're more likely to die at the hands of nature than another tribute. These stations will prepare you as best as they can. You'll have two full days here, and one-half day before you will present what you've learned to Head Gamemaker Levenezque. You will be scored on how well you perform. You will break for lunch at noon. If you look behind you, to the right, you'll see a door, enter there where we will present food to you. You are not allowed to leave until the day is considered over at 8. Dismissed," Tullius finishes with a clap of his hands.

The peacekeepers peel off him and head towards the entrance, to prevent any runners. Tullius himself turns his back to them and heads towards the weapon rack. The only place that didn't have an expert by it, Magnus quickly realizes.

The tributes spill into the facility, hesitating for a bit. Not Magnus, he stands tall and determined, he knows exactly where he wants to go, and where he wants to avoid.

* * *

_POV – Velvet Snijder _

_9:01AM _

Velvet stays back and watches as the tributes slowly advance on the stations nervously. Others, with immense confidence. The careers practically beelined to the combat station. Unsurprising, almost cliché in its predictability.

Still, she decided avoiding them might be for the best. She turned, trying to find her district partner. For whatever reason, he isn't around. It puzzles Velvet, but she doesn't ponder it too much. Despite getting along quite well, they haven't talked about the games seriously.

For good reason too, whenever one broaches the topic, the other immediately falls into humour to mask their nervousness. And naturally, given how both Nylon and she are comedic geniuses, they manage to distract each other perfectly every time.

She sighs ruefully at the thought. She can always talk to him during lunch, she decides. No distractions too, she would like to form an alliance with him. The two get along well, have similar personalities too, or at the very least similar interests. Basically, he's easy to work with who tends to indulge her penchant for comedy at inappropriate times.

His pranks can translate into good traps too. He probably has a talent that no one else in this arena will have, well, besides her that is. But if the two work together, they might be able to even the odds against stronger tributes.

She nods to herself, an alliance with him will benefit her greatly, him too. She doubts he'll say no. He seems like a laidback guy, who doesn't mind listening to others. So long as he's given his fair share to talk your ear off that is.

Velvet chuckles to herself. With that in mind, she starts to walk around the facility. She wants to scout it out first before deciding on any particular station. She also wants to work at stations that don't have people present. To keep her skills as secret as possible.

The facility is large, but it's also just a single room, with a few columns here and there for stability. It doesn't take her long to look over each station. She does find Nylon working at the bug identification station where it seems they work with live critters.

The thought makes her shiver a bit. She'd much rather work at the trap station. It's empty too, which she finds both surprising but fortunate. Everyone else loses she concludes.

"Hello, I'd like to learn from this station," Velvet introduces as she walks into the station's space.

Something she notices from her earlier scouting is that the flooring changes from stainless steel to wood, or dirt or a different form of flooring altogether depending on the station's topic. It also serves a dual purpose of showing the space in which the station consists of.

The grassy texture feels unique and almost real as she steps towards the young woman in a lab coat.

"Ah certainly. This station specializes in trap making, for small game, but also for those willing to learn how to use traps to catch… bigger prey," the woman finishes ominously.

Velvet rolls her eyes but nods anyway. Doesn't take a genius to tell what the bigger prey entails, no need to euphemize it. The expert gives her a small rundown on using wires and ropes, and how to mask them in foliage. It's pretty interesting stuff, and Velvet finds herself comparing it to pranks on more than one occasion.

Her time at the station goes by in a blur. She learns how to mask tripwire, and how to even create pitfalls. The latter of the two being as physically intensive as one would imagine. Although, she finds that masking tripwires comes almost naturally to her.

Deception and misdirection isn't a foreign concept to her. When she and Maize did pranks, most of the time she'd be the distraction. A dangerous position as getting caught or found out would get her burned, but it was the position she was most adept at.

"Hello, Velvet," someone greets.

It snaps Velvet from her focus, causing her to peel her gaze from the small snare she's working on to turn and look behind her. Sela from 9 is standing just outside of the station zone with a brown-haired boy.

Probably the tribute from 9 she reasons as she stands from her seated position. She outstretches a hand towards the stranger.

"Velvet Snijder, nice to meet you," She introduces with a smile.

"Likewise, my name is Harvest Henderson," The boy responds mechanically.

Velvet nods her head in acknowledgment before turning to look at Sela expectantly. The girl from 9 notices and clears her throat.

"We wanted to talk to you about a possible alliance," Sela explains in a hushed tone.

Velvet nods slowly, her eyes instinctively flicking to the other tributes in the room. Thankfully, none were nearby, maybe trap making isn't a highly valued skill? Either way, she's thankful for it.

If word got out about an alliance, the careers would focus them down. Which, would defeat the purpose of an alliance to begin with as it's mostly there for security and safety in numbers. It's mostly why there's never been a large alliance of non-career districts.

The last one was made firmly into an example. Apparently, the victor of those games managed to kill the majority of the alliance themselves before turning on their own alliance. The games ended quickly, one of the quickest due to the sheer amount of fighting in the first two days.

Information like that is kind of unforgettable, but the names do elude her. The point is, be careful on how and when talking about alliances.

Still, the offer is tempting despite her worries. But before accepting, she'd want to see if Nylon would like to join her first. His assistance, she believes will help her even the odds against bigger threats.

"Feels like I'm being interviewed," She allows after glancing at the two staring tributes.

Sela laughs softly but doesn't refute the statement whereas Harvest quirks a confused eyebrow. At least one of them gets it, Velvet thinks.

"Anyways, I'm going to need to think on it. Don't worry though, I'll get back to you soon. Actually, come to my floor tonight, we can discuss more freely then," Velvet says in a spur of the moment decision.

On the not so unlikely off-chance Nylon manages to divert her attempt of a serious conversation during lunch, then Velvet will at least have a contingency to make sure he can't run later tonight. A prank of sorts. But one way or another, they will have a serious talk for once.

* * *

_POV – Judah Rockefeller _

_12:08PM_

Judah enters the room last, intentionally. He finds this is the best way to properly gauge his fellow tributes. To examine them in a social setting.

The room itself is as nondescript as everything else in this section of the building. Steel walls, flooring and the tables themselves even appear the same. To the side of the room, there seems to be a long table of sorts connecting to the wall, it has a wide array of foods on display. They look just as good as the food served on the train, and on his floor. Delicious no doubt, a morbid final meal he concludes. His hand subconsciously wants to feel across his scar, but he catches himself.

He knows he looks sickly, so it'd be in his best interest to not relay to the world what makes him as such. After catching his near slip, he heads over to the row of food. He takes his time in front of it, appearing to be mesmerized by the quantity.

No one would think it suspicious for a tribute from 12 to be amazed by food. A part of him really does feel impressed by the quantity before him. But, he uses this time to scan over the tables. There's a career table, having the four tributes. Avoid them, any attention will just likely get him targeted or killed.

A lot of the other tributes no doubt feel the same. It's as if there's a barrier preventing anyone from getting too close to their table. No one sits by their table, leaving all of the adjacent ones vacant. Well, almost entirely.

There, a hulking colossus of a tribute sits to the table beside the careers. A move Judah suspects come less from bravado and more from assurance. He eats slowly, and appears uninterested by the stares coming from the remaining tributes and careers. As if he's in his own world as he contently eats at some bread. His dark green 7 lets Judah know where the man hails from.

Another threat he should avoid, if only because trickery would hardly matter when the man before could merely punch him into oblivion. Judah makes his way to the end of the row, and turns, allowing himself to see the tables he passed on his first inspection.

He makes sure to put some soup in a bowl, and places it in his plate, to at least appear like he's invested in the food. Soup's always been good on his body too, assuming it's not too heavy on meats. Although, that's hardly a concern for someone from 12, his family no less.

But that's enough self-deprecation, he muses. He continues his observations. The majority of the tributes seem to sit with their partners, a few exceptions of course. 4 sit separate from each other, the same with 7, 10, and 3. Obviously, 12 will soon join that tally. He notices Mila actually speaking to the girl from 4.

It's almost jarring to see, and he nearly drops his tray. But, he masks his shock by inching closer to the large fish dish and almost grabbing at it. It's not the best recovery, but it'll manage. He's more surprised by Mila's initiative more than anything.

She's rather recluse, didn't speak much during the train rides nor the parade. She would speak when spoken to, but never initiates. She always has a calculative look to her eyes, as if examining one's worth. Someone Judah knows better than to form an alliance with. She reminds him of himself. And if she is, he knows she'd betray him the moment he refuses to go into the bloodbath.

Not only would the alliance be pointless, but he'd also actively be assisting his to be killer. Completely asinine, he'd only have himself to blame. Although, the fact she can have a different face to her mask is a bit alarming.

He wonders if he should warn the girl but decides that would just put a target on his back. If Mila deems him a non-threat, that's even one less person to worry about. It doesn't stop him from being a bit surprised at least. She certainly knows how to play the game.

He needs to do the same. He has options. The boy from 3, girl from 10 or boy from 4, all look far stronger than himself. Now, the problem with trying to form an alliance with an apparent power discrepancy is that one ends up holding all the cards. Dependency is a cruel mistress, one that forces even the strongest of minds to crumple.

He needs to find a way to change the perception. He is weak, his physical stature is not the focus. Instead, he needs to appear confident despite his glaring weakness. To show a strong face that makes one question where his confidence stems from, and most importantly wish to acquire the source for themselves. Doing so in the Hunger Games will undoubtedly be challenging.

However, simply because his predicament seems bleak, it doesn't give him permission to resign so soon. Exploiting others comes naturally to him. There just happens to be more permanent stacks at hand.

He grabs some salad and decides on one of the potentials. He marches over confidently, a smart look in his eyes as he plops his tray onto the table.

"Hello there, friend. My name is Judah Rockefeller. May I be so bold as to ask yours?" He asks with a smooth smile.

* * *

_POV – Destry Coleman _

_1:06PM _

She pretends to listen to the explanation given to her by the man in the lab coat, but, to be honest, her intention was never to learn how to create a fishhook from some sticks.

What she really wants to do is observe. To gauge the skills of her possible threats. It just so happens the fishing station happens to be the closest one to the combat station. The careers practically monopolize it.

Well, most of them, the guy from 1 just sits by the entrance, a far too serene smile on his face that frankly pisses her off. She's just _so_ happy that he seems okay with being here, completely _ecstatic_ to see things work out for him.

Golly gees, she should just go introduce herself to such a _wonderful_ looking guy!

Fucker. Damn, he looks so weak too with how small he is. Why'd that shrimp even volunteer? Why does he always look like a smug bastard anyways? She'd love to punch his face in.

His gaze finds hers and she freezes. His smile goes from serene to feral, and then he runs a thumb across his neck before winking.

It infuriates her, and she finds herself instinctively rising to her feet.

"Fish like salmon are sensitive to shadows given one of their most common predators like the eagle swoops in to hunt them, as such- oh, is something wrong, miss?" The expert interrupts himself to look at Destry.

She rips her glare off the boy from one to look at the man with a slight frown. He for his part does seem concerned, if only because he'd lose the only person who seemingly listens to his fishing lectures. Deciding that going over to fight one of the few people who probably could kill her is beyond stupid, so she instead grumbles to herself.

"Sorry, got distracted, please, continue," she eventually says, taking a seat again.

She quickly ignores him and goes back to observing the rest of the careers.

Girl from 1 doesn't even seem all that good. No other way around it, she doesn't do anything flashy, but nothing about her screams 'terrorizing career'. It immediately puts Destry on edge, what if she, like the boy from 1 is simply hiding her skills.

She grits her teeth, Just her _impeccable_ luck that her _wonderful_ time here in the Games is marred by sneaky careers. What are the odds?! At the very least 2 don't seem to care. The girl wields her spear like an absolute demon. And the boy uses weird knives like an extension of his fist, they're shredding through the dummies faster than they can be replaced.

Destry is _beyond happy_ to see such talented people in her games, she sure got lucky! She can pick between being speared like a fish, or stabbed by multiple punches, she's practically _jumping in joy_.

She stands again, and quickly thanks the man for his time. The expert smiles warmly at her, she fights back the tremendous desire to roll her eyes out of their sockets.

She instead makes her way towards another station, now to assess the rest of the tributes. She wants to keep a low profile. She's clearly doing such a _fantastic_ job of that if the douche from 1 is anything to go by.

Still, in an ideal situation, she'd learn about the tributes and manage to keep people from noticing her. Such a shame 'ideal' went off to brutally die. Didn't even invite her either, how unfortunate.

She steps into the fire making station. There's a pair of tributes here, 11 by their number and baby blue colour palette. She still doesn't know what thought process the Capitol went through to come up with three different blues to use as colours for the districts, but she finds it ineffective as much as it's annoying to look at.

She doesn't like white either, hard to clean usually and her instincts are screaming at her not to sit at the dirt floor in the off chance she dirties the tracksuit. She fights those instincts realizing she doesn't need to do this shithole any favours.

The two are talking quietly, but she can still make out their conversation. She listens in on them as she prepares her campsite, placing some stones in a circle as she starts to work on a log.

"After this where should we go?" The girl asks.

Destry raises an eyebrow as she continues going through the motions. So they're allies, or just feel comfortable together? Probably the former, when are people ever truly comfortable together, especially in a setting like this?

"Weaponry," the boy says with a finality that even causes Destry to pause.

"Think that's smart? Pretty sure the careers are hogging it," the girl answers again.

Destry nods at the assessment. They could always ask nicely, sure that'd work _splendidly_ for them.

"The likelihood that they ever stop using the station is slim at best. It'd be better we learn something than be plagued by indecisiveness and fear."

Destry furrows her brows. Is that how he talks, sounds like some posh smug bastard if you're asking her.

"Well, in that case, I'm going to go to the archery range instead. I'm pretty confident on a spear anyways," the girl says offhandedly.

Destry finally focuses on her own camp as she almost kindles a flame, smoke wisping near the top of the log.

Her heart clenches and her eyes widen. She freezes her actions, her gaze lingering on the smoke. Her skin starts to crawl, and she feels her anxiety spiking before she finally snuffs the small embers. She starts to breathe again, and she instantly wonders when she stopped.

Still, her throat feels tight, and she shakily stands from the station. Is she a fucking idiot? Did she really think trying to start fires when she's scared of them is a smart idea? No obviously not, Destry is many things, asshole, poor, petty, but forward thinker?

She's too busy trying to observe others she nearly willingly gave herself a panic attack. The proof speaks for itself; she thinks deprecatorily.

"Are you alright, miss?" The boy asks.

Destry snaps from her musings and turns to look at him.

"Perfectly peachy, can't you tell?"

"Ah yes, your manic gaze sold the image perfectly," the girl comments offhandedly.

The boy stares at his partner disappointedly which in turn prompts an apology from her.

"Sorry…" she looks almost sheepish as she rubs the back of her head.

"Okay. Right, well, this was a wonderful talk, let's do it again some time, or never," Destry says after the silence goes from awkward to uncomfortable.

She stands from the station and pats down her pants before spinning on her heels. She's already a few steps away when she hears the boy ask her a question.

"Why were you eavesdropping on us?"

Destry instinctively bites her thumb in frustration, she turns around and looks the boy in the eyes.

"I don't need to tell you shi-"

"Wait!" The boy interrupts hurriedly, two hands up in a placating gesture of surrender.

Destry snaps her mouth shut and her eyes narrows, but she does wait.

"I just want to say you can simply talk to us, we would have been happy to oblige any questions you may have," he finishes diplomatically.

Destry snorts and rolls her eyes, "sure, what's your weaknesses? What makes you an easy kill? Let's hear the details since you're so damn obliging."

* * *

_POV – Emerald Locke_

_4:09PM _

Emi has long since separated from her district partner. Newt's a nice guy, but he stays at the same station for way too long. She didn't mind doing the edible plants or bug identification for a while, but he's been there since lunch!

If she wants to get to every station, she can't afford to waste time. Once she's at least been to every single one once, then she can go back to others. Probably the survival ones more than say the combat station.

To be honest, she isn't sure she wants to go to that one with the careers there. She doubts they'd be willing to share.

Thankfully, she doesn't believe she'll use any of the weapons on those racks. If she can have any say in it, she'd use throwing knives. She's no expert, but she believes she's good enough at least.

She's been working with them for nearly half a decade. A skill like that is extremely hard to become good at, but besides her painting hobby, she doesn't really have other activities to do. Especially not after Sal died.

To this day, his death still haunts her. A painful memory that plagues her in her sleep. It's one of the main reasons as to why she likes to paint. To get her mind off the horrifying imagery and replace it with some imagery of her own.

At least, she finds that painting serves her greatly, camouflage comes naturally to her. Almost second-nature even. She made her arm look like bark and compared it to the sample the expert gave her. She thanked the woman with a bright smile before she went on to the next station.

That's mostly her pattern at least. Now, she finds herself before the range. She notices a tribute or two here, but they're far too focused trying to use the bow to pay her any mind.

She goes to the counter, where a trainer stands watch. She sees a few bows and knives; she naturally hovers towards the weapons. She stares at them in wonderment. She won't lie that they look very pretty.

She's used to using whatever she could get a hold of, the old rusty worn blades she has at home pale in comparison to the slick silver knives. She grabs one gingerly and feels its weight. It's not something she's used to; however, it feels very balanced. She starts tossing it idly into the air, making the trainer tense nervously.

She considers it more of a party trick, although it's not one she willingly shows people. Peacekeepers would probably punish her for using knives in a dangerous manner. Well, dangerous to them. She feels just as comfortable with a knife in her hand as she does with a brush. After catching a few more tosses, she ends up collecting a half dozen more and makes her way to the short end of the range, where the targets are roughly around 12-15 feet away.

She's going to spend as much time here as every other station, but that doesn't mean she'll undermine its importance. She needs to get used to the weights, assuming that the weapons they work with will end up being the weapons in the cornucopia.

With a steadying breath, she tosses the first blade. For it to miss by a thin margin. She pouts and goes into her second toss. Slightly better, but it clips the edge of the human-shaped target, falling harmlessly to the ground.

Her aim's off, it's straying far too much to the side. She quickly readjusts her position and tosses another. More success, but only getting the inside of the limb. It sticks to the target at least so she knows power and form aren't her problems.

She starts subconsciously twirling the knife in her hand, playing with it as she takes a short break. The trainer spots her eventually, comes over and gives her some tips and advice. It helps refresh her memory at least as It sounds similar to the stuff Sal's dad taught her.

She nods and smiles at the trainer, who ends up going to another tribute. She turns back to the target. The weight of the knives, although balanced is simply stuff she's not used to. Her aim is overcompensating, something she's needed to do when using heavier unbalanced stuff like broken scissors, nails or even rusty kitchen knives.

Inherently, this isn't a hard problem to fix, just a habit she needs to break, or instinct she needs to go against.

She tosses another blade, it sticks in the stomach region. A bit late on its rotation, having its hilt pointing upwards. She smiles triumphantly, fist-pumping at her success. She just needs to tweak out the rough edges.

She continues tossing a few more knives. Her aim steadily improving, although, in reality, it's safer to say her aim is steadily adjusting. Consistency and accuracy were always her strengths, with power being her main drawback.

She'd continue the cycle of tossing knives and waiting for the period where tributes can go grab their weapons. It's almost relaxing doing something she's so familiar with within an otherwise unfamiliar setting. Tossing knives remain the same no matter where one goes.

"You, what's your name?" A gruff voice growls.

It catches Emi off guard and she barely manages to keep hold of the knife she's trying to toss. She turns and stares at the large man before her, her green eyes going wide for a second. Then they go to his dark green 7 and widen even further.

This man's a tribute!? He's huge!

"Uh, hey there. I'm Emerald, but people call me Emi," She says eventually, realizing the tribute was waiting for her.

"I see. You've tossed knives long?" He asks, putting down a big crossbow.

Large weapon for a large guy, it suits him, Emi thinks randomly.

"Yep, for half a decade now," She answers truthfully.

Lying didn't even occur to her, to begin with. His icy blue eyes go from her face to her chest, and she almost feels exasperated before realizing he's probably just looking at her number, her district.

"I see. That's all then," He says slowly, nodding his head towards her before turning to leave.

Emi quirks an eyebrow as she watches the tribute retreat. Odd guy, pretty distant too, but he's not that intimidating once you talk to him.

He looks nothing like he did during reapings too! His beard from before is almost entirely gone, shaved down to an almost shadow and the face tattoos disappeared too. The Capitol technology is very impressive to simply remove ink like that, she thinks.

Still, from what she can tell from the man, he's not exactly extroverted, like herself. So, she doesn't know why he'd approach her like that. She shakes her head, no point thinking too hard about it. She still has more stations to go too.

* * *

_POV – Mischa Morrigan_

_9:27PM_

Mischa allows herself to frown slightly as she sits at the bar in their residence flat. Obviously, she's not drinking, but she opts to sit on the stool rather than take out a chair from the table. She doesn't plan to stay too long anyway. The reason is that the alliance is having a meeting of sorts.

She won't deny being a bit anxious in wanting to head out already. Especially since this time, it'll only be her from 1 going.

Midnight's not in the alliance.

And it's not because he was kicked out, but because he never opted to join in the first place. When he decided to reveal that snippet of news, surprise was the imminent reaction.

Followed by anger and frustration. Opal even managed to look infuriated, which as far as Mischa is concerned, isn't an emotion familiar for the woman so keen on disturbing other's plans. How ironic that the woman so hellbent on surprising others dislikes being surprised the most.

Mischa shakes her head and looks at the clock again. Confirming it's the right time, she slips off from the stool and heads over to the elevator. She presses two on the module and takes a step back. The emptiness of the elevator only serves to remind her that she's truly going in alone.

She wonders if that's a bad thing. Midnight is truly insufferable. Out of his own volition, he pushes others away, like a wild animal unfamiliar with kindness. Not that she particularly offered him any, but even diplomacy seems to agitate him.

He's not very reasonable, but he's also the only person from home that will be in the arena. So, despite herself, she can't deny she's a bit disappointed to see he wants nothing to do with the alliance. However, the more pressing reason is that this also puts her in a precarious position. A clear power discrepancy going into this alliance. An obvious target to turn on.

She wonders if remaining in this alliance is even the best course of action at all. But leaving would force the alliance to dissolve altogether. Again, she wonders if that's a bad thing.

She doesn't have time to think about it any longer with the doors of 2 sliding open. She notices Kyra sitting at the couch, facing the elevator. The girl spots her immediately and narrows her eyes suspiciously. Not a good sign, Mischa realizes.

Remy seems to have a bottle in his hand, as he sits at the bar, much the same way Mischa did.

"ah, the ever-reliable lovebirds from 1 are here are the- where's Midnight?" Remy asks, his tone going from charming and jovial to cold in a blink of an eye.

Mischa's throat feels tight, but she presses on, masking her uncertainty with confidence.

"He won't be joining us," She says as she takes a seat at one of the couches herself.

"Yeah? Why won't he?" Remy questions, following her to the couch as well.

Mischa hesitates, wondering what the best thing would be to say. The truth obviously, but how to tell it without painting her in a bad light. That's the tricky part, she's going to look bad through association. Even when not in the room, Midnight still seems capable of being a nuisance.

"He… he has decided that he will not be joining the alliance," she says eventually, deciding that trying to save face will only come off as superficial at best.

She deserves to be here and deserves to be treated with respect. If they push her away, they won't have an alliance, and that will embolden the other tributes. She's the sole piece keeping the alliance together. Any other tribute won't have the same effect, not being trained as she was.

"Really now?" Remy says, his tone sounding dangerous and dare she say, unhinged.

Kyra merely scoffs, which is the most Mischa has heard from the girl willingly. Every other time it's because she's spoken to. She's not under the delusion that Kyra and she can be friends, but civil would have been nice. But, for whatever reason, Kyra seems to dislike her from the start. A rivalry that Mischa feels will only cause those from 2 to turn on her sooner.

Mischa nods her head, answering Remy's rhetorical question, if only because he appears to want an answer anyways.

"You know that means we have to kill him yeah, target the bastard? You won't shy away just because you two are friends, right?"

Mischa stares at him with the same deadpan expression she reserves for those being thoroughly insufferable.

"I don't have any qualms with hunting him down first if that's what you really want to know," She says.

It's the truth. Her allegiance goes to herself before anyone else. And It's not like he's endeared himself to her in any way either. His folly, his stupidity will be his undoing, and she could care less about it.

Remy stares at her suspiciously, "that better be the case, he's the bastard we're going after first. You see him in the bloodbath, kill him, the others are secondary."

Mischa fights the desire to roll her eyes and somehow manages to nod. It doesn't matter where, power struggles will always happen, and she'll find herself in the center of it.

The elevator opens again, which immediately catches Mischa by surprise. Did Midnight have a change of heart? It would be too late, unfortunately, 2 doesn't appear to be the forgiving type. It does make them predictable and easy to work with. Don't slight them, don't die to them. A very simple formula.

Mischa shakes away her musings and turns to face the elevator.

A large man steps onto the floor, his posture straight, and having a casual confidence to him that is evident, but does not try to stand out, like Remy or Midnight. Self-assurance without the bravado.

"If it isn't the big guy from 7, was wondering if you'd show up," Remy says jokingly, seemingly forgetting about previous news.

Their familiarity does cause Mischa to worry though. The boy from 7 was always going to be a threat, to have him on the alliance however secures the alliance's authority over the games, no other alliance could possibly oppose them. Even if Midnight attempts to create one, something she doubts he will do anyways.

Midnight doesn't play nice with others, Mischa thinks wryly.

"The two of you don't know him, he's Locust from 7. He'll be joining our alliance," Remy introduces simply, offering his bottle.

Locust grabs it as he nods his thanks, he takes a swig before handing it back.

"I thought there would be four of you," He says evenly.

Remy scowls, "yeah, well dipshit from 1 doesn't fancy our alliance. Kill him off by the way, if you get the chance."

Locust nods, which Mischa finds to be a bit unsettling. An outlier tribute shouldn't be so readily willing to kill, that's a trained skill. Even some careers find it disturbing, herself included. She didn't join these games for the love of the sport, but because it was the lesser of two evils. Well, evils to her at least.

"If I find someone to replace him, will you accept?" Locust says.

Remy stops mid swig, and slowly lowers the bottle, "got someone in mind, big guy?"

Locust nods in response, "girl from 5."

Mischa immediately runs through the reapings. A blonde girl comes to mind, nothing about her stands out though. She looked a bit thin too, what can she offer? Remy clearly thinks the same, a skeptical brow raise being his only acknowledgment of Locust's remark.

"She's an experienced knife thrower, good supportive role and easily disposable if necessary," He explains, monotonously.

It makes Mischa tense; his calculative almost callous analysis surprises her. She half expected the large man from 7 to be all brawn and no brain. This side of him worries Mischa a bit. She knows she won't win in a straight fight of strength. She'd have to outthink him. But if his intelligence is greater than estimated, that'd be a horrible time to find out, to say the least.

"Introduce me tomorrow then. I want to see for myself before deciding anything," Remy says.

Locust nods again. Yet another thing that makes Mischa worry. The fact that Remy made himself the de facto leader of the alliance in the span of a day, the fact he seemingly has the backing of the biggest tribute of the games, the fact Remy and he get along surprisingly well for just meeting each other. She turns to look at Kyra, and for once, she feels like the two of them are on the same wavelength. This alliance is looking fractured on conception and fills her with trepidation.

* * *

**AN: First half of Capitol chapters are done! 4 more to go before we get to the games! Internet went out yesterday, so I got a bit delayed. Chapters keep getting bigger and bigger, not intentional though. So I apologize if it's getting rather large. I can try toning it down a bit. Anyways, see you all next chapter!**


	17. Training Sessions: Day 2

_POV – Harrison Jones_

_8:51AM_

Harrison scores impressively on plant identification, his tendency to read books assisting him greatly in this instance. Despite this, he can't bring himself to be happy, his mind far too preoccupied with yesterday's events.

There are two that concern him. For one, his encounter with the girl from 10 really cemented the notion that working with others may be more difficult than anticipated, and to achieve. Her visceral tone and dismissal to diplomacy frustrated him more than he'd like to admit, he found himself needing to refrain his desire to shout at her, to force reasoning into her.

Is it truly so wrong to discuss things peacefully, to reach conclusions without hostility?

Obviously, is the painful realization. To think every person he spoke to would be diplomatic is the height of naivete and unsound idealism. That being said, if a single setback was all it took to deter Harrison from attempting to remain diplomatic then he never truly was destined for greatness, never destined to achieve his goal.

As such, he's at an impasse the moment he sees her. She appears to not notice him, but her minute changes, minor tensing, gives that away. She's not happy to see him, her posture is defensive, and her mouth thins, threatening to break into a frown. It's understandable, he has to concede.

After she snapped and started actively requesting means to effectively kill him, his ally, Adalyn all but lost her composure. He can't even fault her for it. Adalyn, from his short time knowing her, has a fuse shorter than his and far more easily ignited.

Harrison recalls needing to pull her away, less she drew even more attention. He would like to think that despite the shaky first introduction, he could speak to the girl from 10. Yet, even as he indirectly approaches her, she flees. Not from fear, but resentment, anger even. Harrison shakes his head sadly as he sighs heavily, for every success there is a failure. He can only hope to learn from it. He stands from the plant identification station and makes to walk away when he spots an electric scoreboard.

A baby blue 11 materializes overtop the scores before dissipating into small pixels. Once it clears up, Harrison can finally see the contents of the scoreboard. It looks entirely barren on the bottom half, with only a handful of scores making up the top half of the provided space. It makes it relatively simple to examine the scores, first looking for his own. An 85% places him in fourth. His eyebrows raise seeing it, expecting to have been placed better overall. Tesla Eddison scores the highest with a 98% followed by a Hazel Redford with 95% and a Mila Carway with 88%. All impressive scores, and it makes Harrison wonder if scores and names are purposely shown to put targets on those who do well.

In that case, he's perfectly content with how he did. Pride doesn't serve him here, and although he'd like to think to score the best may paint him in a positive light for the private sessions, he genuinely doesn't believe he could score above 98% anyways.

Any further efforts would be in vain. Harrison ponders the worth of talking to her, possibly adding her to the alliance. But after some serious thought, he dismisses it. Adalyn didn't even bother showing up to the plant identification on the basis that she's confident enough not to inadvertently poison herself. He himself only decided to take the test to sate his curiosity, as well as to distract him.

Knowing how to survive in the wilderness is second nature for those in 11, especially those who need to work in the fields or forests. Tesla has more theoretical knowledge, but can it translate into practice? He doesn't know the girl, but she does hail from 3, as the scoreboard makes sure to remind him.

Trees, wilderness, they don't come to mind when he thinks of District 3. Intelligence does however, so her score makes sense. She could be book smart, much like how he strives to be. But she likely lacks the ability to transition said intelligence into tangible results. Sure, it's a bit of a stretch, but even assuming she could. She wouldn't contribute much more than what Adalyn or he could already do together.

She's to be noted as a possible threat, someone who if she survives the initial bloodbath, may have the ability to live long. Killing her may be ideal, as if it came to attrition, she very well may be able to outlive him.

Almost as if struck by lightning, Harrison jolts. His throat constricts as he swallows slowly, his hand runs through his hair as he lets his thoughts sink in. Did he really just plot the murder of a child?

He smiles wryly, bitterly, the games are responsible for this mental regression, responsible for forcing his hand like this. A man of diplomacy, who wishes to usher forward a better tomorrow for 11, relegated to plotting murders like some petty back alley degenerate.

The mere thought agitates him. Not that he was ever self-righteous. He doesn't shy away from fighting for himself, to keep himself secure. But, for it to translate so naturally to killing? Is this as far as his values take him? As far as he's willing to play a diplomatic hand?

The fact Harrison already knows the answer agitates him the most.

* * *

_POV – Sela Fields_

_10:23AM_

There's a spring to her step, Sela won't deny it. In what has been the worst week of her life so far, things are starting to change their tune for the better. Last night, Harvest and she managed to solidify an alliance with the duo from 8.

The talks went swimmingly, and now her chances of bringing district 9 a victor have increased tremendously. Plus, the two are very easy to talk to, charismatic in their own right. Where Velvet carries herself with bounds of confidence, Nylon has an easy-going demeanour that makes him impossible to stay mad at.

Despite this, she isn't foolish.

For district 9 to win, Sela may need to be the one that kills them. It's an unsettling notion, but she's prepared for it. She has been the moment she was reaped. The duo from 8 may be nice, and perhaps if she met them anywhere else, she'd be happy to call them friends. But here, no, in there, in the arena. They can't be friends.

They can be cordial, friendly even, but not friends, never friends. The stakes are too high, and when the moment calls for it. Sela will kill them. It's not a shocking revelation, or a sickening one, just a simple resolve to bring district 9 a victor.

"Sela, are you okay?" Her district partner calls to her.

Sela blinks, as if released from a spell and turns to face Harvest with a smile, "I'm fine thank-you, what station do you want to go to?"

He shrugs, "I'm fine with whatever you decide."

Sela nods, furrowing her brows as she allows herself to get distracted in the thought. Yesterday, she tried some trap making with Harvest, then she went and learned how to make a camp while he went to learn plant identification. Other than that, she did try her hand, or more accurately, her legs on the obstacle course.

With that in mind, it becomes clear what she needs to practice next.

"The range or weapons stations maybe, depending on where the careers are," Sela concludes.

"I see. They are at neither," Harvest says simply.

Sela quickly whirls on her heels, staring towards the center, where the weapon station lies. She's shocked to see it empty of careers. That's not to say it is empty, there are other tributes taking the opportune moment for what it is.

Despite this, she furrows her brows and nervously checks her surroundings. She can't explain it, but not knowing where the careers are makes her uneasy, as if she's setting herself up. Anxious prey instinct to fear the lurking unseen predator.

She admonishes the stupid metaphor as quickly as it comes. She can't afford to fear them, fear will cause hesitation, and hesitation can cause death.

"The weapons station looks pretty crowded," Sela muses out loud, she clears her throat and turns to face her district partner, "how about we go to the range?"

He nods and the two set out towards their desired station. They walk in comfortable silence, coming up to the relatively empty range. The only other tribute is the boy from 3, but Sela quickly notices that he's not actually doing anything, just staring at the targets.

He's a bit unsettling, and Sela finds it difficult to go up to the tribute. Frankly, he looks intimidating and carries himself with unknown confidence. As if he belongs here, it puzzles Sela as equally as it freezes her from approaching.

During her momentary distraction, her district partner goes to collect two quivers and bows. He clears his throat, drawing her attention as he hands her a set.

"Thank-you Harvest."

He nods before shifting his focus to the targets. Sela decides to follow his example and fetches an arrow. She hesitates for a second, not really knowing what to do with the weapon in her hand. Thankfully, an instructor comes over and gives her a very basic rundown on archery.

The two tributes from 9 spend their time practice grasping the bowstring, nocking arrows and most importantly having a relaxed grip. Sela struggles at first, most of her arrows falling too short of the target. The instructor tells her to use her back some more and to relax her shoulders.

She furrows her brows but soaks up the feedback. Under the instructor's guidance, she finds drawing the bow becomes easier after half an hour. It still doesn't do much for her aim, unfortunately, her 'instinctive aiming' isn't something she can develop overnight.

Not that she understands much of the jargon, but she figures it bottles down to a lack of experience. It makes sense given this is her first time picking up a bow. But, Sela's frail, her arms are thin, so close combat just isn't feasible for her. She doesn't think she'll have the strength to throw knives either, so it really only leaves her with one option.

She takes a moment to watch her partner draw his bow. He remains frozen in place, taking his time to aim. 5 seconds go by before he quickly releases, making sure to follow through. Sela tries to follow the arrow, but it goes by too quickly and lands with a thud as it pierces near the center of the target.

Her eyes widen for a moment, it's the most success they've had all day.

"Nice shot Harvest," she congratulates with a grin.

He rubs the back of his head sheepishly, "I believe the expression is, 'beginner's luck'," he says, although it doesn't stop a small smile from forming.

"Perhaps, want to continue practicing until lunch?" Sela asks.

"If you want, I won't oppose."

"Great, thanks, Harvest."

"Ah, your welcome," he responds in his usual emotionless tone.

Sela shakes her head, laughing softly at his mannerisms. She then quickly takes a deep breath and draws her bow.

* * *

_POV – Calder Lynch_

_12:02PM_

His hands instinctively go back to his ears. He clicks his tongue in frustration, once again feeling the absence of his fishhook earrings.

Too much of an advantage, could be used as a weapon they say.

How exactly can he kill anyone with a fishhook? If anything, he'd use the fishhook to fish. Those idiots from the Capitol have their heads filled with bloodshed.

At least he didn't have it the worst. The blonde girl from 9 isn't so blonde anymore, having black hair ever since the parade. And the boy from 7, as far as Calder remembers, should have face tattoos and a long-tangled beard.

Instead, the guy has a trimmed beard and tattooless face. As if killing them wasn't enough, the Capitol also enforces their victims to play dress up. They couldn't have a simple execution, they have to make a bloodspot out of a punishment, give a false sense of hope, a faint light at the end of the tunnel. Only to have victors turn out drunks, druggies or dangling.

The Capitol is a cesspool masked as a utopia. Built on top of the broken ruins of its districts. The unjust treatment of the districts, the oppressive nature, it's stifling, how there hasn't been a rebellion since the creation of the Hunger Games is beyond him.

Well, actually, that's not true. Begrudgingly, he knows why. Because, what would even be the point? Some districts like the Games, seeing it as a recreational activity to put your children in. The districts have either become desensitized to the brutal notion of pitting children against children, or they've long since abandoned hope of ever seeing freedom of it.

Calder takes a seat at an empty table, plopping down his tray. He's packed his plate with bread, greens and meats, with the anticipation of stocking up before the games. He isn't the only person to take this approach, almost everyone sans maybe the Careers are indulging in some overeating.

It makes him think of his family. Calder's eaten more in the last three days than his family has in the last two weeks. He almost feels guilty, thinking of how his sister would undoubtedly love to try some of the more exotic plates provided here.

Then again, he's also incredibly grateful that she isn't given the chance, since it'd imply being reaped. Just the thought of her going into the games makes him shiver. Better him than her, even if she'd be far better prepared to handle these games.

Maurea could get herself into an alliance easily. Calder, on the other hand. He doesn't want one. At the end of the day, it's just too unreliable. The boy from 12 spoke to him yesterday. Which raised all sorts of alarm bells in his head.

Calder has a bit of a reputation back home, one of a volatile delinquent, to not be approached. He laments the fact it didn't transition to the group of tributes here. Judah Rockefeller has a funny way of talking that immediately gave Calder the impression of a snobby Capitol wannabe.

And sure, that in itself was a bit grating, but, Calder was more hung up on the fact he was spoken to at all. Even if his reputation is absent, he didn't really make himself approachable, always closed off, sitting alone, head ducked and eyes firmly on his plate.

How could anyone see that as a sign of to waltz over and just start chattering at him? No, Calder was guarded, still is around Judah. This time, the tribute from 12 didn't sit with him, and honestly, Calder couldn't care less where he went so long as it's no longer beside him.

"Hey, can I sit with you?"

Calder raises his head from his plate, instinctively pulling it closer to him. The boy in front of him has a bronze complexion and black curly hair. He looks small, but that can be attested to his age. Has to be on the younger side. Calder's gaze shifts from the boy's face to the tracksuit he's wearing. Where Calder has navy blue stripes, this boy has orange. And an Orange 6, which would be the most telling aspect about him.

Still, Calder hesitates, why would this tribute want to talk to him, actually, why do any of the tributes want to talk to him? Judah first, and now 6? Is he really this approachable despite his best efforts? This kind of stuff never happened in 4.

"uhh, whatever I guess," He eventually says.

"Thanks, name's Vortex by the way," the boy greets easily.

"Calder," he answers stiffly, and the only reason he doesn't immediately tell the tribute to leave is because he looks roughly Maurea's age.

Vortex quickly takes a seat and starts to eat. Calder watches him for a few moments, waiting for whatever reason the boy came over to surface. After some more seconds of awkward silence, Calder finally allows his attention to go back to his own food.

Only for a moment, the sound of a shattering plate pierces throughout the cafeteria, putting Calder in high alert, his gaze zeroing in on the sound.

The career table looks a bit bigger, with new additions. Boy from 7, girl from 5. However, that's not the cause of the commotion. It seems the boy from 2 started something with the boy from 1, a hand gripping his tracksuit collar. The sudden movement probably caused the latter of the two careers to drop his tray.

The two are wordlessly glaring at one another. Peacekeepers file into the room and quickly break the two apart.

"Save it for the arena, you will not fight in my facility," The head trainer, Tullius- Calder has to remind himself, says.

Both are being held back by peacekeepers, yet neither are making a move to break free, perfectly content with posturing and glaring. It looks incredibly childish, Calder concludes.

"Damn right I will, I'm killing you first one," the boy from 2 says.

He probably didn't mean to say it for everyone to hear, but the whole cafeteria is quite small to begin with, and deadly quiet. Tensions in the career alliance is practically a lifeline tossed to everyone here.

The mohawked tribute laughs, shaking his head dismissively, "You'll try,"

"Fu-"

"That's enough, you two need to be separated, one of you leave this table."

"I was just leaving actually," District 1 says.

"Good, see to it that this doesn't happen again,"

"Sure, sure," he responds with a dismissive wave of his hand.

The obnoxiously annoying scene quickly fizzles out, the boy from 2 sitting back at the table while the mohawked tribute goes for more food. Only when the murmurs of the other tributes build up again into full-blown conversation does Calder allow his gaze to fall back onto his plate.

"Well, that was certainly entertaining, huh," Vortex whispers.

Calder raises his gaze from his plate to the tribute across him. He stares at the boy intently, what is his angle? Everyone has one, so what's his?

"What do you want Vortex?" He finally asks.

Vortex puts a finger to his chin and furrows his brows, pretending to be deep in thought.

"Just want some company is all," he explains with a shrug.

"Where's your district partner, she can keep you company," Calder says.

"Where's yours?"

"I chose to stay away from her, what's your excuse?" Calder answers a bit hotly.

Vortex raises his hands in mock surrender as he snickers, "you do have me there."

Calder raises an eyebrow, and leans back on his chair, "well?"

Vortex frowns, all sense of mirth evaporating from his features, he shrugs lamely, "my mentor told me not team up with her,"

The other eyebrow raises as Calder ponders this new piece of information. He thinks back to his own mentor, Florian. The man has given him some helpful tips, he can't deny that. He told Calder to join the careers, that he he's strong enough to join. Although reassuring, that's a group he refuses to join on principle.

But that's a side point. He looks over Vortex, the teen tries to hide his grimace at the revelation, clearly upset or perhaps unsettled by the instruction.

"Do you want to work with her?"

Vortex blinks numbly at him, slowly processing the information before shrugging again, "she's not very nice."

"Neither am I," Calder reminds him with an exasperated sigh.

"Nah, you're not all bad," Vortex dismisses confidently.

Calder wants to object, but suddenly doesn't have the energy to. This kid is way too energetic, especially given where they are. Calder can barely motivate himself to wake up in the morning, the prospect of punishment being the sole incentive, more so than a chance to learn something helpful in the facility that is.

"Well whatever I guess," Calder murmurs quietly, going back to his plate.

"Sweet, you mind if I sit here again tomorrow?" the boy asks.

"Just don't be too noisy," Calder says, compromising.

"Would you look at that. You're quite nice after all," Vortex says.

Calder can practically hear the grin on the boy's lips. He sighs tiredly, maybe he should send the kid away. He shakes his head, already knowing he won't. He rarely shoos away kids, if they can tolerate him, he usually lets them stay around.

Still, does Vortex have to sound so pleased with himself?

* * *

_POV – Magnus Flux_

_2:21PM_

Tesla's found him again, and she's not leaving him be. Magnus is unsure what the proper protocol is here. Normally, people would lose interest in him, quickly in fact. The other children on the compound never talked to him.

He was simply too good to work with them, having an adept ability to use the bow and an unrivaled knack for swordsmanship. Rotemn and Raleed quickly started to train him alone. The others avoided him from then on. They'd steal glances at him when they thought he didn't notice.

It seemed Magnus also managed to garner a sudden influx of bad luck too. Although, luck is something he dismisses from a rational standpoint, it's undeniable that after receiving the individual training, a lot of misfortunate things started to occur to him.

They were never drastic, but others would become accident-prone around him, spilling water, or dropping equipment around him. It gradually increased in frequency, to the point where he had to relocate to a private room. At the very least then, his fellow peers would no longer trip over themselves.

However, due to this change, he was left in relative isolation, only ever seeing other children during reapings. Something he realized was not an appropriate time to try to develop social skills. It's apparently insensitive.

But he's getting immensely sidetracked. The point is, people don't talk to him, they don't want to. So why is Tesla tailing him? She asked about a secret organization before, instantly putting Magnus on high alert.

He knows he didn't tell her anything, he made sure to keep his mouth shut and close the door when she asks. He thought that would be the end of it. After all, he doesn't tell her anything, how could she possibly come to any conclusion without any information?

Or perhaps, is she instead tailing him now to generate information?

This close scrutiny reminds him a bit of the tests back on the compound, where Rotemn would stare at him intently and look for any mistakes in his form. The same intensity is here, but instead of a large burly man, it's a petite raven-haired girl.

Well, if she wants to follow him around, he won't stop her. That doesn't mean he'll talk to her, however. His intention is to remain inconspicuous anyways, so once she realizes he's following a normal tribute decorum, she'll likely lose interest.

Magnus starts by going to the fire making station and observes the instructor. He doesn't attempt to make a fire, already having a basic understanding courtesy of OnRush. He stays there for a few moments before migrating to another station.

This is his strategy, he plans to disclose absolutely nothing away of his skills. As such, he'll refuse to do anything until the private sessions. That being said, he'll still go to stations and learn. He's always been an auditory learner anyways, so sitting and listening to instructions is just as helpful as going through the motions himself.

At some point, Tesla abandons him, likely concluding that he's just normal like the rest of the tributes. It puts Magnus at ease at least. He is unsure how Raleed would react to finding out OnRush has been exposed, so the least he speaks to others, the less likely he can reveal anything. The logic is sound to him.

Magnus finds himself gravitating towards the range again, his green eyes gluing themselves to a bow on the rack. Earlier this morning, he couldn't check it's weight or familiarize himself with the Hunger Games sanctioned bow. The tribute pair of 9 denied his chance, but now, casting his gaze on the empty range, Magnus is confident he's given a moment's respite.

He makes sure to double-check his surroundings before picking up the slick silver bow. It's not all that different than the one he uses back on the compound, he quickly realizes. Its weight and structure being roughly the same, drawing is easy as well, Magnus realizes as he goes through the simple motion.

He reaches for an arrow and examines it. They're dull, likely to prevent any pre-emptive killing. At least, that's the intention. Precise aim would nullify any efforts to make the weapon harmless. In the right hands, a bow and dull arrow can still kill just as easily.

Magnus can sense the temptation sweeping through him, his eyes glancing towards the target almost longingly. He chews on the inside of his mouth as he hesitantly puts the bow down. He cannot allow himself to be so easily swayed.

His goal is to win these Hunger Games, and the only way to do so is to follow a precise plan. Do not reveal himself, do not reveal OnRush, fall off the radar and only surface back when in the arena. To think he momentarily almost indulged in a childish desire. The mere thought is ludicrous, just how lax is he willing to be?

This isn't a game, not for him, not for Raleed. He's ordered to win the Hunger Games, destined to since the age of 3. Failure is not an option, nor is acting like a child. He takes a steadying breath and quickly puts the arrow back in its quiver.

He's spent enough time in this range.

If anything, he'd much prefer to go into private sessions immediately, he's fooled around enough.

* * *

_POV – Cooper Dawson_

_6:39PM_

Cooper finds that copying the experts when they give examples helps him learn how to replicate the traps on his own far more easily. Whereas on the first day, following the instructions made him trip up or confuse some steps, watching them do it makes things incredibly easy.

It reminds him a bit of how his mom used to give him demonstrations when working with the dogs, how to wash them, how to keep their areas clean and the proper amount to feed. After a single demonstration, Cooper would be able to pick it up immediately. He's happy to see this translate to the stations here.

Building a fire, making traps, after only two days, he feels confident enough not to screw it up. It's something he's very happy to have accomplished. Especially since he made sure to challenge himself to learn.

If he couldn't learn how to create simple hare traps, then he wouldn't go to the weapons station. Survival is far more important to him than learning how to use a weapon. Although, he won't deny being a bit interested in using a knife.

He can't help but think it's kind of cool, to learn how to use a weapon that is. If only the circumstances weren't so… dour. Cooper sighs as he stands up from the station. He takes a moment to dust himself before heading to the center of the facility.

He spots a few tributes, hacking at dummies with all sorts of weapons. A mace, scythe, sword, dagger. It's kind of interesting to see. For some reason, the careers gave up the station, some even going to survival ones. Cooper recalls seeing the girl from 1 going over to learn how to make fires.

He doesn't know why they'd give up the area, but Cooper isn't one to look a gift horse in the mouth. He reaches for a knife and starts to swing it around, getting a feel for it. After a few more swings, he decides to practice on a dummy.

The dummy offers minimal resistance as he punctures its torso. He has a straying thought, wondering just how much more would flesh and bone resist being stabbed. He shakes his head, willing the image to dissipate. Even if he needs to fight, he'd rather not worry himself with pointless thoughts like those.

It won't help him anyways.

But, now that he's on the topic of helping. He should really thank Hazel for her recommendation. According to Baxton, 10 generated a lot of positivity for their unorthodox decision to ride the horses rather than the chariot.

It's probably the only time he's seen Destry so happy too. In the half-week he's spent around the ginger girl, she's only frowned or glowered. So to see what he believes amounts to a vibrant smile for her, well, it's kind of telling. The girl likes her horses. He was hoping she'd be a bit nicer to him from then on. But the moment the parade ended, and they were taken away from the horses, Destry no longer saw a purpose to talk to him.

She became grouchy again, and generally unpleasant to be around. He knows a pointless endeavour when he sees one. Having an ally going into the arena may have been nice, but it depends on the ally. And Destry just isn't kind. It's as simple as that really.

Cooper lets those lingering thoughts disappear. He rolls his shoulders as he stares at the dummy, he does a few more light arm stretches before holding the knife in a reverse grip. He jumps as he slashes the knife across the dummy's throat, cutting cleanly under the Adam's apple. Being 4'6 puts his as a bit on the short side, so to reach the throat he needs to aim a bit upwards, or to give himself some extra elevation. He finds cutting downwards gives him more leverage, helps him cut deeper, which is why he decides to jump.

"Well done, you might want to avoid jumping though. Leaves you in place, easy to counter" Tullius compliments then quickly advises as he walks by him.

Cooper straightens under the praise, smiling a bit more brightly. Although, he doesn't actually know how to replicate his success without jumping. Tullius pauses, noticing Cooper's hesitance.

"Ah, sir, uhm, could you show me a demonstration?" Cooper eventually asks.

He isn't sure if he's allowed to waste the trainer's time asking for one. But the man smiles at him and puts forth his hand. Cooper takes the hint, spins the blade and gives the trainer the hilt.

"Okay, I'll do it quickly the first time, then go through it more slowly the second time."

Cooper nods his head and starts to get a better angle. His visual learning helped him with training the dogs, then it helped him with creating traps, now, it'll help him with gutting a human.

* * *

_POV – Kyra Boldar_

_9:02PM_

Kyra sits in the same spot she did last night. It seems District 2's floor will be the alliance floor. It makes sense to Kyra, since both tributes from their district are in the alliance, everyone else is a one of.

Speaking of, Kyra still is unsure about adding Emerald into the fold. The blonde girl is basically Kyra's exact opposite. Excitable and chatty, it's almost startling how at ease this girl is surrounded by trained careers. Locust doesn't count, he's intimidating for entirely different yet completely justifiable reasons.

And yet, the girl from 5 greets them all with a peace sign before flopping onto the couch. Kyra isn't sure if she should be impressed or appalled at the girls' boldness. She ends up being a bit of both. Emerald is not shy at all and can make herself feel comfortable on someone else's floor. Kyra knows she wouldn't be able to do the same.

"Thanks for letting me join again, Remy," Emerald says.

Kyra frowns at the peppiness in the girl's tone. She's way too familiar, way too comfortable. It's also a reminder of the fact Remy went out of his way to talk to this girl because some guy from 7 told him to. Now this 'Career' alliance has two outliers and a tribute from 1.

And that's a whole different can of worms altogether. They aren't in the arena yet and 1's already causing a ruckus. This is exactly why Kyra dislikes them. Attention seeking divas, they don't bother trying to win these games through a fair fight, they'd rather use mind games to get their wins. How well does that work out for them again?

"Wow, wow, relax there. You still need score well during private sessions to be fully accepted," Remy says, drawing Kyra's attention.

"Oh, right, yeah, I'll do that," Emerald says sheepishly, seemingly forgetting the sole condition to her acceptance.

When Remy came up to Kyra about Emerald, it wasn't to ask her opinion on the matter, but rather to let her know about the blonde's admission into the alliance. Locust recommended her, and for whatever reason, that was enough to pique his curiosity. Apparently, whatever Emerald showed him was good enough because she was sitting with them at lunch today.

Kyra is unsure how she feels about Remy. He's doing things all on his own, ignoring her entirely. He added Locust to the alliance before discussing it with the rest of them and ended up doing the same with Emerald. Oh, and she can't forget the kill order he placed on Midnight.

Honestly, Kyra can't help but think he's letting the power get to his head. They haven't even done private sessions; he really shouldn't carry himself with this much self-assurance. Sure, initially, she didn't mind if he became the leader of the alliance.

But, that was because the alliance was 2 from 2, and 2 from 1. In this setting, Remy would likely go to her for assistance, for help. District 2 pride she thought, would prevail. But now that he's hand picking people to join, she's feeling a bit unsure, uneasy with the development.

Technically, the only thing the two of them have connecting them is their district, and although she's sure he won't openly backstab her, what's to stop him from using Emerald or Locust to do it? Kyra wasn't sure if her concerns were warranted, but the look Mischa gave her last night cemented them.

When the tribute from 1 is starting to grow concerned with the power shift, then you know there's a problem.

But, how can she possibly go about handling it? As it stands, Remy has Locust and Emerald under his control, they're likely to work with him, side with him since they don't have any district affiliations in the alliance. They might as well work with the person who extended the offer, right?

The doors to her floor slide open, revealing the tallest tribute in the games. Locust nods to both Remy and herself before taking a seat at the bar.

Shortly after, and totally unsurprisingly, Mischa arrives last.

"We're all here. Assuming Emerald doesn't turn out to be a waste of time, this will be the alliance going into the Hunger Games," Remy immediately starts.

Where once before, Kyra would see his confidence as something to be jealous of, now she only sees it as a reminder of his bloated ego. Why does he get to decide when the meeting begins anyways?

"Oh, I sure hope not to be, also, you can call me Emi," Emerald adds.

How can this girl be so carefree? She supposes it's because her stakes are better now. Whereas Kyra's feel like her's have fallen.

"Whatever you say, Emerald," Remy says dismissively.

Kyra gauges the girl's reaction and is disappointed to see the girl simply rub the back of her head with a sheepish smile. Is she immune to insults? Is that what happens when you talk more? No, she's just tolerating it, yeah, that makes more sense, out of everyone here, Emerald is the most disposable, she likely knows that.

"Pardon my intrusion, but, is there any reason as to why you wish to hold the alliance to five members?" Mischa asks.

"We don't need anyone else. They'll slow us down," Remy answers with a shrug.

Kyra doesn't know how genuine he is, but she can see the reasoning behind it. She's skeptical of Emerald's skills, what's to say she isn't already slowing them down.

"You don't want to consider 4's tributes?" Mischa asks.

"Oh, Cyrus is friendly once you get to know her," Emerald says.

Kyra furrows her brows, she said Cyrus right? And 'her' afterward right? She's the girl from 4 then? That's a misleading name.

"Unless you're offering her as your replacement. No. We won't be needing her," Remy says with firm finality.

Emerald snaps her mouth shut. Ah, so she does know where she stands in this alliance. That only confuses Kyra more, why is she so bubbly then?

"And why's that? I'd understand if she's incompetent, but an alliance of 5 is small compared to most in previous years," Mischa says, continuing to press the issue.

"Simple, I want to beat Spartacus' kill record."

The room falls silent at his claim. Kyra's eyes bug out, and she wears her shock openly on her face. The outliers might not know who he is by name. But getting 11 kills isn't an easy accomplishment, so it's likely that they've heard of him, indirectly at least. He killed 4 in the bloodbath alone and was responsible for taking out 5 of the 6 members in his alliance.

He spared his district partner, but that was it. Then he got two more kills to make his historic tally. The games didn't last a week, being one of the fastest games too.

"The 89th Hunger Games," Emerald whispers, her tone serious for once, her brows knit together creating an expression that probably passes for a frown on the girl.

It draws Kyra's attention, and she looks at the girl in a new light. Not many people bother to look up previous games, especially those from outlier districts, _it's old, no point, it's morbid_, those kinds of excuses come to mind.

"Yeah, that's right. He got 11, I want 12."

No one readily responds to his claim. It's… well, Kyra isn't sure what to think. Sure, she knows she needs to kill, it's kind of expected from a career. She's watched countless Hunger Games as research too. It also serves a second purpose of desensitizing herself to gore.

Even then, she doesn't _want_ to kill other tributes, it's a necessary evil, not an exciting prospect. Remy's blasé reveal leaves her feeling anxious. She tilts her head back, her grey-blue eyes connecting with Mischa's chocolate brown. Somehow, Kyra just knew she'd look her way.

They share a silent conversation.

Spartacus may have spared his district partner when the alliance broke up. But, Kyra concludes that if she wants to win these games, she won't.

* * *

**AN: Sorry for the delay there, I had assignments piling up. Thankfully, they're mostly done. So, I should be getting back into writing again! Next chapter is day 3/private sessions! just 3 more before the bloodbath, I am getting excited! I think by next chapter I'm going to go around pming submitters to check if they are still reading. As I realize that winging the story is really starting to get tough and I should probably plan out how I want the bloodbath and subsequent games to play out. Knowing who's still reading can at least help influence how I write the story. Anyways, until the next chapter! I'm totally not going to dump massive plot points out of nowhere! **


	18. Private Sessions: Day 3 - The Beginning

_3:01AM, Hidden location in the Capitol..._

The room is minimalistic, only having a single table in the center with people seated around it. The door opens, grabbing everyone's attention. The three people sitting at the table silence their conversations to greet the final member of their meeting.

Helen nods her head as she takes a seat at the end of the table. She takes a moment to smooth her lab coat and readjust her glasses. She places her tablet on the table before clearing her throat.

"My apologies, I was held up," she explains.

"It's fine my dear, no one will fault you for devoting your time to the arena," A man in a suit says.

"That's greatly appreciated, thank-you Osmon."

Osmon smiles, "now, I believe we have a meeting to start?"

"Quite. I'll start with you Miss Volthound, how is your tribute?" Helen asks, turning to face the other woman in the room.

"Magnus will perform, of that I assure you," Geneva Volthound answers smartly.

The director of OnRush is not a woman to be trifled with. She's worked on this passion project for nearly two decades, and depending on Magnus' success these games, district 3 may very well gain the right to become a career district themselves. Simply put, OnRush is the academy in 3. Given's 4 lax and poor performances, the Capitol will hardly bat an eye if a new district replaces them, at least, that's what she wishes to believe.

Thankfully, it's an idea Helen Levenezque supports. And for that, Geneva answers to her.

"Anything less than a final 8 finish will make it impossible to authenticate OnRush. You do understand this, correct?"

"Of course, Miss Levenezque. I assure you, Magnus is unrivaled in our facility. If he does not perform, I'll personally begin with the termination of OnRush."

"Thank-you," Helen responds, turning her attention back to the man in the suit, "Osmon, how was your trip to the lumber district?"

The older man chuckles, "well, if you've watched the parade, then surely you know I've brought quite the souvenir."

Helen reaches for her tablet, "Locust Sequoia, he's certainly impressive."

"Indeed, a fitting man for the games. As requested,"

"Yes, I'm amazed you were able to find such a perfect fit," Helen openly praises.

"A contender for the games, he may very well win them… assuming you allow it that is," Osmon says.

"It comes down to entertainment, Osmon. If he's entertaining, he will continue to do so."

She leaves the other half of the sentence unsaid. After all, if he's no longer entertaining, he's no longer needed. That's just how the games are.

"Mister Barns, how did your tests go, your initial reports were cryptic at best."

"I'm terribly sorry about that Miss Levenezque. The arbol muttations are difficult to sedate once angered. Just dealing with one enraged subject gave us 6 casualties, 2 of which were fatalities. I have a more updated report, I'll send it over now," The man finishes, reaching for a tablet of his own.

Helen hears a small chime emit from her tablet, but ignores it in favour of questioning her lead muttation designer, "how did you allow 2 fatalities?"

The man grimaces, "a miscalculation. They develop highly territorial behaviourisms when inside forests, something I failed to notice during preliminary testing. This normally isn't a concern when in their dormant forms, but the moment my team coaxed it awake, it went berserk."

Helen's mouth thins, and she readjusts her glasses at the news, "I see, and your other mutts?"

"All complete ma'am."

"Very well. Compensate the families. Then, begin placing the arbol mutts in their designated quadrants," Helen instructs.

Cronus Barns bows his head, "of course Miss Levenezque."

"You're dismissed. Both of you."

Cronus and Geneva stand, nod their head and then exit. Helen leans on her arms, resting her hands before her face. Osmon remains seated, patiently waiting for her to say what's on her mind. After a few seconds of hesitation, she eventually speaks up.

"Do you believe what I'm doing is right?" Her voice is calm, betraying nothing of what she may feel.

Some may think it a test, or perhaps a crack in her resolve. Osmon chuckles at the notion, she's simply curious. Always a studious girl growing up, she much preferred hearing the opinions of others rather than give one herself.

What she is doing, isn't wrong. But, one can always argue the matter of subjectivity. Anything to do with changing the games will have some overreaching impact on the Capitol. Some people do not like change. She wonders if forcing it upon them is the right decision.

It's a pointless train of thought, as he knows Helen's ambition demands she sees her plan to the end. This golden opportunity was given to her on a silver platter, even she didn't expect it so soon. President Nova did something right for once, Osmon thinks humorously.

"Of course. We've waited years for this chance. I'll see to it that next year brings your wish to fruition."

"Next year is a Quarter Quell, it's not like a reaping," Helen says skeptically.

To anyone hearing, the innocuous statement wouldn't have any other meaning, it's a painfully obvious observation. Osmon knows better.

"All the same, we'll have the result you desire."

Helen stares at him impassively as she readjusts her glasses, to Osmon it vividly paints the picture of nervous skepticism. She's shrewd and very cautious, she never would have been a suitable replacement if she didn't have these characteristics.

"Thank-you Osmon, your words are most appreciated."

"Think nothing of it. Now, you should get some sleep, you'll have some tributes to score, I believe."

"Yes, that's correct. But, before I go, here, I want you to deliver this," Helen says, fetching into her lab and taking out an envelope.

Osmon takes the beige envelope, looking it over, "Atlantis? The academy in 4?"

"Correct, next year I want careers. Assuming the twist is the same one previously discussed, then they wouldn't have an excuse not to deliver careers, even if they aren't 'ready'."

"That is true. Very well, I'll see to it that it's delivered."

"Once again, Thank-you."

"Once again, think nothing of it. I'll take my leave tomorrow morning, good night Helen."

The man stands and he too bows before exiting. He leaves Helen in the room and makes his way through the labyrinth hallways. The plan is in motion, and with any luck, these games will plant the seed. The next will bear the fruits. To think this all happened because of President Nova spur of the moment impulse.

Osmon relishes in the idea with laughter.

* * *

_POV – Judah Rockefeller_

_8:57AM_

Judah fixes the collar of his tracksuit as he anxiously walks around the facility. It's the last day, he'll have one final lunch to talk to tributes, to form alliances.

The thought makes him smile bitterly. It's been a disaster from start to finish. Day 1, he spoke to Calder Lynch, a capable-looking ginger-haired boy from 4. He reminded Judah a bit of a ruffian with his posture, but he didn't see anything overtly threatening in Calder. His conversation ended, well, the word Judah would use is poorly.

Poorly sums it up perfectly he thinks. Not disastrous, he does not expect the boy from 4 to hold any grudges or resentments for what came across as harmless conversation. But, the evident signs of annoyance and frustration were showing by the end of lunch, and Judah knows when to respectfully bow out.

At worst, Calder would simply avoid him in fear of having his ear talked off. Judah chuckles to himself, if he could have everyone avoid him through such a method, he'd be the first willing to attempt it. A shame most of these careers would sooner opt to kill him.

A much easier solution, he concludes cynically.

Day 2 was even worst than the day prior, he approached the tribute from 3, but could not so much as good a word in edgewise before the tribute stood up and forgone lunch altogether.

The very action was humiliating as it drew a few prying eyes. Thankfully, it was quickly shoved under the rug as the 2 male careers decided to pin their egos in a clash of misplaced bravado. A momentary respite. Discovering that the boy from 1 was not a part of the career alliance also piqued his curiosity. Judah was tempted to make his way and speak to him but given his lack of success decided against it.

Speaking of failure, Mila as an ally was the first, he concluded was out of the question. She's cunning, and has a determined gaze that Judah knows will have her see these games through to the end. She'd kill him without so much as flinching. A shame, he'd love to learn more about her.

Those from 8 are glued to the hip. The boy may have seemed easy to manipulate, as he didn't appear all that intelligent, but the girl has a sharp hawk-like look in her gaze, never letting anyone unknowingly enter her vicinity. She's perceptive. It also appears to him that the duo from 8 are working together.

9 and 11 both look to be duos as well. The girl from 9 and boy from 11 being far too perceptive to willingly add a sick crippled tribute like himself.

Judah squeezes his hands tight at the thought. His sickness, this wretched sickness is debilitating him from making anything work. 12 was full of clueless idiots, those you could easily manipulate and misdirect. But the moment he's reaped to the games, everyone seems to pick up on his intentions, his sickness, and his overall uselessness.

He's avoided like the plague, no, even worst, he's avoided like a bloodbath, and it angers him. But, he must admit that it also terrifies him. Because if he were the person outside looking in, he'd come to the very same conclusions. In a fair fight, Judah would be killed, by any tribute. Even the young innocent looking girl from 7 could dispatch him, and if she struggled to do so, she could always target his chest to deliver him unholy agony.

His chronic pain has limited his ability to do physical activities for 3 years now. At the age of 14, he fell terribly ill, his death all but assured. The treatments he received weren't supposed to work, and yet, he continued to breathe. It only cost him his physical stamina. And now he's perpetually weakened, with some of the symptoms of the illness persisting. To add to it, he's been reaped to the games as well.

He could not have been dealt a worse hand.

Judah stops before the trap station and slowly takes a seat. He only has the morning left, but he might as well devote some more time learning some survival skills. That's not to say he ignored it these last two days. It's just, his focus was predominantly on acquiring allies, as helpful as that commitment was for him.

He's just going to refresh his memory on trap making, he's not adept at it, but it's something he could put some solid time into, as opposed to the range, gauntlet, sparring, weapons station, obstacle course, one gets the idea.

He knows he won't even be on par with the tributes of 8, more than once stealing glances at the pair as they worked away at their own contraptions. It certainly put a damper on Judah's mood, where he knew people had him in terms of physical strength, his intelligence is what he prides himself in. To see others beat him even in his own element.

Well, it's beyond demoralizing. His only consolation was learning that the pair from 8 are quite adept, if not prodigal in trap making. As it turns out, learning from them was as, if not more beneficial than the expert.

It's what he intends to show the gamemakers. Nothing else comes to mind, the social aspect of the games isn't something one can really show during private sessions anyways. Not that he has anything to show for.

If Judah knew this was going to be all for naught, he'd have remained recluse, quiet away in the comforts of silence. Despite being charismatic and knowing how to navigate a conversation, he isn't one who actually enjoys it.

Much preferring the comfort of his own company, and the company of a book. His illness brought the charismatic rogue in him to light, seeing as the treatments were cripplingly expensive, he needed to support his parents.

Stealing from unsuspecting people just came naturally to him.

Unfortunately, not naturally enough. He can't for the life of him acquire one single competent ally. He smiles bitterly at the thought; the truth of the statement could not be further emphasized.

* * *

_POV – Vortex Senna_

_12:02PM_

Vortex is feeling the pressure, the anxiety, his throat feels tight. In just an hour, the private sessions begin, the beginning of the end, he thinks with a dry laugh. Everything was just a prologue, just a prefix, just the speed bump before everything really starts to pick up.

Vortex has been avoiding Icarus ever since the unnerving conversation he had after the parade. He was dead tired the next morning and couldn't learn anything at all, not to mention how entirely uncomfortable it was to spend time with someone as excitably manic as his mentor. That being said, he has to agree with some things his crazy mentor said, finding a strong ally to work with. Vortex believes he found just that.

Calder is a softie, a pushover who thinks he's scarier than he really is. He's different from Corolla. Where she's mean and has bite to her comments, Calder never says anything with feeling, as if he's putting up airs.

He might be willing to team up with Vortex. His softie tendencies aside, Calder's strong, he's tall and physically in shape, his tracksuit hugs his muscles, only further emphasizing his strength.

Vortex wants him as an ally. He just has to be very gentle, very patient about it. That's okay with him, he might not have any other redeeming quality about him, but he's certainly patient. His friends should be the testimony of that. He handles Jaycee's alcoholism, Snow's absent-minded tardiness and Yago's vicious mood swings with practiced ease. He just needs to add Calder's perpetual flight-or-fight response to the list of eccentricities he's dealt with, and voila! New ally!

Speaking of allies, Vortex turns behind him, staring at his new one. Newton Faraday, simply put is surprisingly helpful. Vortex met him yesterday after lunch when the boy from 5 was giving him tips on self-defense of all things.

Newt doesn't even look like he could harm a fly and here he comes telling Vortex that eyes, groins and under the jaw are key places to target. It stupefied Vortex immediately, but when the expert agrees is when Vortex knows just how useful Newt can be.

Newt's just so unassuming, Vortex didn't even notice him until that very moment, in the sparring station. Hell, Newt was told to stop sparring, as experts were getting hurt fighting him. They called him ruthless and slippery.

He's 14 too. Just as old as Vortex, how twisted is that? Vortex can be patient with others, but can he fight? He doesn't think so, no, he knows so. He's nothing like Newt. That was why he approached the boy about an alliance.

Icarus has to approve, Newt hits the nail on the head in terms of usefulness. To think Vortex found this hidden gem, just aimlessly doing stations all on his own. His partner joined the career pack, it should have been obvious that he didn't have an alliance.

Newt accepted Vortex's proposal immediately and the two have stuck together since.

But that's enough reminiscing, Vortex needs to see how well Calder will handle having two people sitting with him. The only consolation is that Newt looks just as boyish as him, so maybe Calder won't be too alarmed.

He doubts the boy from 4 knows just how dangerous Newt can be. Vortex even struggles to wrap his head around it.

"Hey, Newt, follow me, I want to introduce you to someone," Vortex says, smiling at his ginger-haired ally.

"Lead the way," comes the excitable response.

And he does. The two get their trays and finds Calder sitting a… not alone? Vortex pauses, looking at the unfamiliar duo sitting with him.

The two have their backs to him, so Vortex can't read their district numbers. That's fine, he can sort of identify them through their colours. Forest green stands for 7, and white for 10. They look even shorter than Vortex too, what is happening here?

Calder's rests his elbow on the table, his face covered by an open palm. He looks, well exasperated. Vortex thinks he hears a soft sigh and notices Calder's gaze from behind his fingers flicker from his tray of food to the two tributes sitting before him. Then, his dark grey eyes travel even further up and connect with Vortex.

He grins in response, making Calder sigh again. He's doing that a lot.

"Room for 2 more?" Vortex asks.

The two tributes turn to face him. Their child-like faces stare at him before turning to face Calder.

"Do what you want," He says in a defeated tone, poking his fork into some mashed potatoes.

_You softie_, Vortex thinks smugly. He wordlessly takes a seat at the table and starts to eat, doing the same strategy as yesterday.

"Hey there, my name's Newt, nice to meet you all," His ally says taking a seat at the table, feeling perfectly at home talking to three new strangers.

"I'm Cooper, nice to meet you,"

"My name's Hazel, likewise Newt!"

Newt beams at the two before turning to face Calder. The boy doesn't say anything still eating his food before his eyes narrow.

"What?"

"Oh, you didn't want to introduce yourself?"

"Does it matter?"

"His name's Calder, from 4," Vortex supplies in between bites.

Calder glares at him, to which Vortex simply shrugs and mouths, 'does it matter?' impishly.

The boy from 4 ducks his head in resignation, sighing again.

What an odd group they must make. 4 kids and Calder, what a completely useless alliance they'd make. _Bloodbaths and Calder, featuring Newt_. Vortex chuckles at the idea. Where Newt was a surprising discovery. Hazel and Cooper are probably just as useless as he is. Lacking any fighting capabilities, they're just nice.

Niceties won't stop the careers from slaughtering them though.

"So, what do you all plan on showing head Gamemaker Levenezque?" Hazel asks suddenly.

Vortex pauses mid-bite to stare at the sole girl of the table, surprised that anyone could remember such a mouthful of a name.

"Oh… I, I'd rather not say," Cooper explains timidly.

Vortex doesn't see why that's something to be shy about, agreeing with the sentiment wholeheartedly. Some of the people in this very table might be out to get you. Only an idiot would openly discuss their strategy with possible enemies.

"All good. No one's going to hold it agat-agas-against you," Newt stammers.

Cooper nods his head in thanks.

"But I don't mind talking about it! I'm going to show them my fighting style and surf-sir-survival skills," Newt continues unabashedly.

Vortex purses his lips. Did he say, idiot? He meant, open and easy-going guy. Newt's not an idiot, no way. He instinctively turns to look at Calder and sure enough, the older boy's on guard after hearing self-defense. Vortex grimaces, hopefully, he doesn't turn tale, despite what Newt is telling everyone, he's still a kid, and Vortex would much rather have Calder as an ally than Newt if it came down to deciding between one or the other.

"Oh cool. I'm going to show them plant identification, I scored a 95%! Did you know that 85% of plant life can be found in the ocean?" She informs the table at a whirlwind pace.

Vortex blinks stupidly at her, obviously not knowing that snippet of information. By the way, Cooper looks at her, he's probably the same. Newt's excited, and surprising of all, Calder perks up at the fact.

He struggles to place why until he makes the connection. District 4 and the ocean, as synonymous as district 7 is to forests or 6 to morphine addiction.

Did she do that on purpose? Give a little piece of marine facts to coax Calder into liking her? To have him pick her instead.

It's a fleeting moment, and the fact she excitably talks about marine life so brightly makes Vortex dismiss the idea. He is mildly impressed at the fact Calder seems engaged in the conversation for once, talking about all kinds of fish facts. Then again, Calder a softie, he should have expected it at this point.

* * *

_POV – Mischa Morrigan_

_2:15PM_

"District 1, Mischa Morrigan, you may go," Tullius says.

Mischa stands from the career table and slowly makes her way to the exit. Something they failed to explain to the tributes was a physical check-up just before private sessions. Simple stuff, really, just get their height, weight, basic physical features like hair colour, eye colour and a face portrait. Very simple stuff, but tedious when 24 have to be done individually.

When Mischa asked for the purpose of the photo, the photographer simply explained it'd be the portrait used for The Hunger Games. The one everyone else would see appear in the sky.

Her death portrait.

It made Mischa reasonably unnerved to see how easily the people of the capitol can discuss the death of tributes as if discussing the weather. Although, it likely unnerved her the most due to the silent reminder that there's a chance her face may show up in the sky.

That's good in the end, a bit of fear keeps one alert, and there isn't any room for complacency in the arena.

Mischa exits the cafeteria and walks back into the facility. She finds it eerily quiet when entirely empty. She's the only one on the floor, with the exception of a few sparring trainers. The only sounds she hears come from the gamemaker booth. She spots the head gamemaker along with many others, funnily enough, she stands out with how ordinary she appears.

"I am Mischa Morrigan from District 1," She introduces with a slight bow.

The gamemakers quiet down and give her their undivided attention. She smiles, satisfied with that as she makes her way to the weapons rack.

Any weapon one can think of is here. Her teachings from AICE explain it best, if one can be impressive with a unique or exotic weapon, then there's a chance it appears in the arena. Career favouritism, although she supposes someone from an outlier district could theoretically do the same, assuming they trained with a unique weapon their whole lives as she did.

She finds a training rapier, as she knows she would and quickly heads back into the center.

"May I request a spar, with someone who wields a lance," Mischa asks.

One of the trainers obliges her, grabbing the respective training weapon and stands across from her. Mischa opts for a weapon disadvantage for two reasons. 1, to show her prowess even when the odds are against her, and two, to simulate a battle against Kyra Boldar from 2. The girl's an adept spearwoman, so she wishes to emphasize her own superiority.

That being said, Mischa doesn't intend to reveal all her cards, all of her tricks. She knows that if she performs adequately, and defeats the trainer handsomely, she can secure an 8, maybe even a 9. More than sufficient for her.

She doesn't intend to incorporate her dance background into her fighting style, not yet, that's her trump, her secret advantage she wishes to reveal during the arena. To garner everyone's attention and cement her as the undivided favourite in the games.

Although, some things need to happen along the way before she can think of that. It's not good to grow conceited. She knows that she first needs to focus on the sessions, then the interviews. Baby steps, but at the very least she has a bit of a plan formulating.

"You may begin at any time," the trainer says, lance in his two hands, his form low.

Mischa lifts the rapier before her, having the thin blade point upwards, dividing her face in two. She tucks her left hand behind her back.

"Please, come at me," she says politely.

The expert quickly complies, keeping the lance low before thrusting in an upwards forward motion. It's too strong to safely parry.

Mischa leaps to the right, letting it harmlessly swish by her. She's forced to duck as the trainer quickly brings the lance horizontally, she can feel the breeze caress the top of her head, but she doesn't let it bother her.

The trainer spins the lance and readjusts his hands on it in a southpaw grip. But at that moment, Mischa's already bringing the tip of her blade forward.

The trainer switches his grip again and brings his lance across his body like a pole, swatting the tip away from his chest. Instead of fighting it, Mischa rides the momentum change with a swift spin and slashes low, clipping both of his legs before leaping back from his retaliatory thrust.

"That's your point," He confesses, raising a hand in surrender.

Mischa nods and takes a step back before falling into her starting stance again, the trainer does as well, and the two begin the process from the beginning. They spar for three more rounds; Mischa makes a minor overcommitment that gives the trainer the chance to get her arm. But ultimately, she beats her sparring partner 3-1 before she thanks him for his efforts.

She then heads to the survival skills stations. She notices every gamemaker stare at her, they've gone entirely silent, not even any passing words between each other. She is both grateful, but also anxious by their stares. They saw her stupid blunder and she worries how badly it can affect her score.

She shakes her head, deciding to worry about it after and goes about the process of making a simple fire. After she completes it on her first try, she goes back to the gamemakers and bows politely.

"Thank-you for your time gamemakers," Mischa says.

"Thank-you Miss Morrigan, you are dismissed," Levenezque responds.

Mischa bows again, and quickly makes her way out of the facility. Thankfully, when completing the session, she doesn't need to go back to the cafeteria. Actually, she isn't even allowed to.

By the time she enters the residence building's lobby, she's mentally kicking herself for her mistakes.

Two of them, she quickly reflects. The over-commitment to an obvious feint, now that she thinks about it, and the slow start to her fire, which she knows she can do better on. Thankfully, the fire mistake was minuscule, as she simply was being way too safe about it. She just wanted to make sure she created a fire on the first try. Anything less would be unacceptable for her.

It cost her some time. She could have blown on the kindling a bit more. For the feint, she needs to focus on the hips. Not the weapon, what kind of elementary mistake was that? She chews on her lip as she mentally runs the fight over and over through her head.

All she can hope is that she performed well enough overall. She's not going to be able to get the fight out of her mind until she sees her score, she realizes bitterly.

* * *

_POV – Remy Cartwright_

_2:30PM_

"District 2, Remy Cartw-"

"Yeah, yeah, I think I know how this plays out," Remy interrupts with a wave of his hand.

He stands from the table and cracks his neck before making his way to the exit.

"Good luck Remy," Emerald says with a thumbs up.

Locust nods towards him, and Remy shakes his head exasperatedly. Why does it feel like he's picked up strays? Can't be worst than what that guy from 4's got going, he concedes looking at the kiddy table plus delinquent ginger.

Kyra doesn't say anything to him, seemingly deep in thought. He waits for her to make eye contact, only to wink at her. Kyra rolls her eyes prompting him to snicker. She's been spacey ever since last night, makes sense, he decides.

Not every day someone proclaims to want to kill at least half the people in the room. But more on that later, he's got a panel of judges to impress.

He slams the doors open and makes his way down the hallway, into the facility. It's kind of refreshing seeing it deserted and empty of tributes, it feels kind of like back in Invictus, where Memnon would manage to get a whole floor just for the two of them. Perks of being a Selected.

"Hey there, Remy Cartwright, I'd like to show you the gauntlet," Remy introduces once he finally stands before the panel of gamemakers.

"Very well, what difficulty would you have it set at?" The head gamemaker asks.

He grins cockily at her, "set it to the max, make it a challenge."

"By all means, head to the station and let me know once you are ready to begin."

He shrugs and makes a stop at the weapon rack. He picks up two ring daggers. and spins them around as he makes his way to the gauntlet station.

To put it simply, the gauntlet is a virtual arena, where holograms rush you in waves. The difficulty settings go from 1-12. Remy's tried it once or twice but found 10 too simple for him. He hasn't tried 12, but he's willing to take a chance. Even if it is hard, it'll finally make his time here entertaining, intimidation tactics get boring very quickly after a few minutes, let alone a day.

He steps into the room and has to momentarily wonder how the gamemakers will watch him. Or hear him for that matter, the gauntlet is found on the opposite side of the booth after all.

He quickly discovers how when he sees a few screens displaying the gamemaker booth. It must be a two-way feed of some kind, as the gamemakers can trace his movements as he paces around the smaller room.

"I'm good to go," he says, holding one knife in a reverse grip and the other in a standard one.

The holograms are in the shape of grey human silhouettes, and they sprint headlong towards him. It would be a bit unnerving if he didn't expect it. But this is his third time in the room, he probably spent the most time here out of every other tribute. They probably didn't find it to be worthwhile.

Their loss, he thinks wickedly, he loves the exhilaration it gives him. Remy grins and lowers his center of gravity. He jabs with his reverse grip, running the knife across the first silhouette's neck.

He spins, slashing the torso of the next before he pivots on his feet and roundhouse kicks the next hologram coming from his flank.

They shatter on impact and dissipate into particles. Remy immediately notices the intensity that comes with level 12 difficulty. He doesn't have a moment's respite. The moment he lands the roundhouse he jumps into the air, rotating to his other leg and kicks forward.

He lands on his left leg before ducking to a fall and rolling away from his virtual opponents. He springs to his feet and tosses his first ring dagger. It connects in the silhouette's chest, shattering it like glass. He catches the dagger before it falls and runs it across two more torsos before throwing his leg backward and connecting with another grey faceless head. He rolls forward and springs straight into a punch.

Remy loses count of how long he stays in there, his actions, his leaps, drops, spins, rolls all meshing into a deadly dance. By the end, he's panting heavily, his black curls stick to his caramel skin, and his tracksuit is drenched straight through. He's barely holding himself up, gripping onto his knees.

At some point, he tossed one of his daggers to give himself some space, but he didn't have the time to go pick it up and had to do the rest of the gauntlet with a sole dagger, kicks, and punches. If Memnon ever discovers just how much hand-to-hand Remy was forced to do, he'd undoubtedly never let it go.

A secret to keep to his grave, he concludes.

"Thank-you Mister Cartwright, that will be all," The head gamemaker says.

Remy stands up straight, to the screaming protests of his legs, lungs, and arms, "was my pleasure," he says smoothly.

Once he's finally out of the observant glances from the gamemakers he allows himself to sag. Goodness, did 12 take the energy out of him. He doubts anyone else can give half the show he did.

He doubts Spartacus could do what he did. He'll show him, show everyone why Remy Cartwright is the unrivaled best.

Anything Spartacus can do, he can do better. He got 11 kills, Remy will get 12. Spartacus betrayed his alliance via an ambush, Remy will do it through a challenge.

He's just that good, it doesn't matter what others think, or try to do. He'll kill them all. Because he can.

Remy steps onto his floor and gives a quick nod to Heron, 2's escort. The crass man is a perfect fit for a crass district 2.

"How'd it go? Ah, stupid question, swimmingly, am I right, Remy?"

Remy rolls his eyes, but grins anyways, "gauntlet at 12, for the whole time,"

"Oh, that is most impressive. A 10 at the minimum, I have no doubts,"

"Neither do I. Get one of those tongueless servants in here, I need some ice for my bath," Remy says, pointing to his room, referring to the personal bathroom inside.

"Of course, I'll send one your way."

Remy nods and enters, his thoughts going back to last year. Oman, the tribute for the 98th games was weak, Remy managed to take a win off him, despite being the apparent favourite, giving them 7-1 scores apiece. If it weren't for Spartacus' asinine teachings, Remy would have gotten the spot.

He knows he could win those games, easily, even with one year less of expereince. But due to the idiot that is his current mentor, he was denied his chance, forced to wait one more year, with a new gamemaker. Anything can happen in that arena. It'll be entirely different than what's usually expected.

And it's all thanks to his dumbass of a mentor. He can't stress enough just how much that man fucked his chances last year, and frankly, Remy's not of the forgiving type. Once he becomes victor, he'll drag that bastard through the mud. He's only relevant because he holds the kill record.

Remy will change that. He'll take away everything that makes Spartacus worthwhile, and have him tossed out like yesterday's trash. Once Remy becomes district 2's new golden boy, he can do whatever the hell he wants.

He's itching to get into the arena, he's nearly salivating at his prospective future.

* * *

_POV – Harvest Henderson_

_6:06PM_

"District 9, Harvest Henderson," Tullius says tiredly.

"Good luck Harvest," Sela says immediately afterwards.

He turns to her and smiles, nodding his head in thanks before getting up from his chair. The room's considerably less full and quiet with more than half the tributes gone. His thoughts go to his late sister, Gwenith, and wonders just how she handled this.

If he recalls, she scored a 2. Didn't place too well either, as it was during a period of time where the arenas were more deadly than the tributes. She was 13 at the time as well, to his 17. He knows he'll do better as a result, age plays such an important roll in these games. Maybe if he does, his parents won't worry? He shakes his head, who's he kidding? They've probably long since abandoned watching.

Harvest exits the cafeteria and heads down the hallway. Nothing seems out of place until he feels his leg pull at something. He hears what sounds like something snapping and his whole body goes on high alert. He hears it before he sees it and lunges forward, just narrowly missing whatever it was that lands where he was just standing.

He gets up, dusting himself and turns to face the hallway. It opens up into the facility, meaning no doors. A puddle of water is at the center of the entrance. He kneels down and grabs at the razor-thin wire, barely able to see it even when in his hand.

His gaze goes from it to the weird contraption that lines the walls around the entrance, starting from the bottom, and running up alongside the wall for a good 6 feet. At the top, on both sides seems to be uncapped water bottles pointed in a horizontal, yet upwards slant. The bottle has weights wired around it. It looks like the weights actually squished the plastic bottle, explaining where the water came from, and how it managed to pour on him even in that position. The whole contraption looks heavily tapped to the wall. Harvest is actually left speechless. Did Velvet do this? Is this what she showed the gamemakers? It would have had to take the whole 15 minutes, at the very least to set it up.

"Mister Henderson, please come forward," the head gamemaker says, snapping him out of his stupor.

Harvest nods, and quickly makes his way before the gamemakers. They look tired, simply put, some are even in the middle of eating. Not the head gamemaker though, she's intently staring at him, expectantly he realizes.

"I'll be using the bow, plant identification, and the camouflage."

He waits for the head gamemaker to nod and heads towards the range. He picks up a bow and three arrows and heads to in front of one of the targets. He takes a steadying breath and goes through the motions he remembers. A firm grip, but ultimately a relaxed one, breathing is important too. Follow through with your movements. Draw with your back, and let it all uncoil in one, fluent motion.

Harvest releases and watches as the arrow zips by, punching through the side of the dummy's torso. It's a grazing shot, practically harmless. He remains calm and goes through the motions two more times. His aim gets slightly better with each shot. He doesn't miss once.

He can be content with that. He heads over to the plant identification center and goes through the test. This, he finds to be even harder than archery. Still, he scores a solid 77%, a personal best for him. He then quickly gets up from this station and heads over to camouflage.

He's only halfway through his arm when he's told to stop, he looks perplexingly up to the gamemaker.

"That will be all, thank-you, Mister Henderson."

Harvest slowly puts the brush down and swallows thickly. He's being told to stop early, ahead of schedule. He isn't the first, he realizes, recalling the clock said somewhere around 6:05 when in reality he should have been 6:15 for his allocated time slot.

So, at least he isn't the only one to screw up somehow.

But, he's clearly not good enough. Like his sister, he thinks solemnly. She was probably told to stop early too, given her petite form. What else could she do? She wasn't bright, just kind and gentle. A sweet angel, their sweet angel his parents would call her.

Sweetness evidently doesn't have a place in the games. Sweetness didn't stop the reptilian mutt from mauling her with fangs and claws before leaving her remains for the capitol to scoop up, toss in the wretched wooden coffin and sent back home.

He remembers the day the coffin was delivered. He remembers the day the coffin was buried in the graveyard. He remembers the day he stood on a stage with his broken parents and had Opal Barrineau talk about the tributes in her speech.

Not a word mentioned about Gwenith Henderson, she didn't even know her.

Harvest could hardly hope to forget, the horror etched permanently into his memory. Will he forsake his parents, have them stand on the stage again as another victor, a tribute amongst him, goes through the same speech?

Will they too, forget his existence?

"Thank-you for your time," Harvest says woodenly, bowing to the gamemakers.

He's painfully aware at the fact that only then do some even notice him. They look at him quizzically for a moment before going back to their conversations or food.

He clenches his jaw seeing it, his eyes narrowing. He wordlessly heads out of the facility, one arm half-way painted to look uncannily similar to bark.

* * *

_POV – Adalyn Plumm_

_7:16PM_

Her ally and district partner's currently in there, doing his private session. Adalyn's nervous, nervous of what she might do when she's in there.

The Capitol represents everything she despises. A greedy state that steals the resources from the lesser districts, crippling them to the point of dependency despite the wretched crimes done to them.

She feels like she can relate, having put up with her alcoholic father. He never beat her, not intentionally, but when shitfaced as he can become, he was rougher than even he realized. The bruises faded by now, but she's used to accumulating them. School was her escape, so was her temper.

Now, if she wants any chance of surviving these games, to impress these bastards, she'll have to go without neither. Losing her temper in front of all those gamemakers could be too easy, cathartic even.

But, ultimately suicidal. She's been raised to be the good girl, to keep her head down and do as everyone tells her. She hates it, utterly hates it.

And now she's here in the games, forced to do it all again, just for a chance, a mere chance to impress even more bastards who in turn might or might not sponsor her. After all, it could just very well be more entertaining to watch her die instead.

"District 11, Adalyn Plumm," Tullius drones out.

His voice echoes in the silent, relatively empty room. She stands, letting the chair screech as she pushes it back with more force than intended. She ducks her head at the head trainer's confused stare and quickly exits the cafeteria.

She admittedly doesn't know what she wants to show the gamemakers. All of this time waiting and she has absolutely nothing to show for it. She could try spear work. Although she doesn't have any formal training- or informal for that matter, she did occasionally need to knock fruits down during work.

She'd use a large pole for that, sometimes climbing up a few yards to even reach. That in itself actually leads to a possible idea.

She could show her climbing skills, again something she developed from work, back when she was allowed to go into the forests at least. Before she became unjustly accused, then subsequently blacklisted.

Great, as if she needs another reason for her temper to flare. She claps her cheeks and lets the sting remind her what's at stake. If she snaps, loses her temper, she dies. As simple as that.

She recalls times when gamemakers held a vindictive grudge, and spite killed tributes for some unimaginable reason. How else would you explain a whole fucking cave system suddenly collapsing on one single tribute? Snapping at a gamemaker would definitely fit the bill she reasons.

She stands before the gamemakers and stares impassively. Her eyebrow twitches as whatever nervousness she may have had, dies gruesomely once she notices only a few paying her any attention. They're gassed, well guess what! So is she, she's been sitting in a room for hours, they didn't even let her leave or eat any more food after lunch.

She wants to scream at them but immediately catches herself. That was close, even after all of this mental preparation and just the sight of those lazy gamemakers nearly made her fly right off the handle.

"I will be doing some climbing and spear work," She says.

She doesn't bother waiting for acknowledgment, figuring she'd waste all of her time if she did. Instead, she goes to the mesh nets found by the furthest wall and makes quick work of it. Much easier than trees, she thinks triumphantly. She takes some risky jumps, as she reaches the top.

Getting down is also, considerably easier when compared to trees. She finds it almost liberating, the elation she gets from doing something she's been basically banned from getting the chance to back in 11 is incredibly wonderful. Not even thoughts of the superstitious 11 can agitate her mood. Climbing has always been therapeutic, freeing, and gave her a certain independence. She's the only one responsible for getting herself to the top of a tree, and the bottom. She alone, no outside influence, well, normally at least.

Adalyn is smiling by the time her feet hit the floor and has a small spring to her step as she fetches a lance to use. She goes over to the dummies and starts thrusting at vital spots, heart, neck, head, she can land hits on them easily, and from a safe distance. Her smile falters, before falling altogether as she comes to a saddening realization.

Much easier than fruits, she thinks wryly.

* * *

**AN: I LOVE ACCIDENTALLY REFRESHING THE PAGE AFTER ALL OF MY EDITS ARE DONE! BECAUSE I JUST LOVE DOING THEM A SECOND TIME. **

**I even had my author note done. Uh, how was it last time? Right, lots to unpack, uh, my capitol-not-exactly-a-plot rears it's head, maybe we'll see it again in the foreseeable future. Uh, but yes, it does confirm that I'm planning a sequel. I won't be accepting submissions until these games are almost done, and we're at the epilogue phase. But don't worry, I'll definitely give more details about that later. I just don't want to accept tributes now when I'm not even in the games, you know? **

**Another thing, I wanna give the timeline I use for the Capitol phase of the games, it's not original, I don't think, but it's also entirely made up.**

**Day 1 - Reapings, (some districts arrive today.)**

**Day 2 - Parade (the remainder of the districts arrive, parade at night)**

**Day 3 - First Training Day**

**Day 4 - Second Training Day**

**Day 5 - Third Training Day, Private Sessions (half-day, sessions begin at 2pm)**

**Day 6 - Interview preparations, scores are revealed.**

**Day 7 - Interviews (done mid-afternoon well into the night)**

**Day 8 - The Hunger Games begin!**

**Yeah. 2 chapters left before the games begin! I also mentioned the last chapter that starting now I'd go around asking submitters if they're still reading. They don't have an obligation to. I just want to know who's who on the account it could possibly influence how my games play out.**

**I also want to thank everyone who has reviewed! Thanks so much, thorne98, Andii99, Paradigm of Writing, Manny Siliezar and PopcornAndFanfiction. Thanks as well to Audmirable, and Wulfekin for the pm! ****You guys are awesome! Reviewers who have submitted, I won't actually need to pm you, so thanks for that too!**


	19. The Respite

_POV – Destry Coleman_

_8:02AM_

_Knock, knock, knock. _

Destry buries her face under the pillow, hoping her efforts will drown out the annoying sound. She cocoons herself in the soft, fluffy and fresh smelling blankets, allowing it's warmth to comfort her.

_Knock, knock, knock._

Destry groans. There's no better way to start her day she thinks sarcastically, grouchily slipping out of the sheets. She stomps over to the door and presses the button. The metal door slides open with a hum, and Glaphyra squeaks as she takes a step back, her knuckles nearly knocking on Destry's glowering face instead.

"What do you want?" She asks angrily, tiredly, grumpily.

"My, Destry, did you just get out of bed?" the escort asks stupidly.

Destry squints her eyes disbelievingly, tossing a hand up before shaking her head, "No, I was too busy drinking myself under the covers instead of the table."

"How crass. Even if you're tryi-"

"Just shut up, please, either let me go back to bed or tell me why you're here. I know we don't have anything for today, I checked the schedule," Destry interrupts, visibly and audibly annoyed.

"If you checked the schedule, then you should know that you have preparations with your stylist and mentor at 9," Glaphyra says, her voice rising to an almost shrill squeal.

Destry winces and massages her temples, "why the hell do I even need to do that? This is our break, our respite before you get to watch us die in there, let me have this."

Glaphyra splutters as Destry presses the button to close the door, it shuts on the escorts face. It must have jolted the woman into acting as she quickly starts to bang on the door again. Destry ignores it to slip back into bed.

She's not going to waste her time with stupid preparations. For what? For what purpose does it serve? Other than making it more entertaining or tolerable for the capitol audience that is. Destry is _prancing in joy_ at the idea of becoming their little plaything. How _wonderful_ it would be to give the Capitol _exactly_ everything they want. She's simply _tripping_ over herself to make it happen!

Screw Glaphyra, Screw the Capitol and screw everyone here. She's not changing for them, what they see is what they get. If they don't like it, then too fucking bad. Cry her a river and drown in it.

_Knock, knock, knock._

"Keep it up, it's almost starting to make me motivated!" Destry shouts back.

The knocks stop, and Destry allows herself to smirk. She tucks herself back into bed and sighs comfortably at how soft everything is. She never had anything like this back home.

Her thoughts drift to her mom, her face becoming crestfallen. She's all alone now, first her dad 4 years ago to a barn fire, and now her, here, stuck in these games. Her mom barely kept a strong face for her, but now that there's no one left to be strong for? How long will she last? Destry knows, not long. Only way to reunite is to win these games.

Is she even trying to though?

She did check the schedule; she did know she had 'stuff' to do by 9. But, It's preparations on how to make yourself appeal to the average Capitolite. It's stupid, it's pathetic, it's not Destry. She pauses her train of thought to clench her blanket and hide under it.

Is Destry enough for these games? Is she good enough to come home?

She needs to be realistic here. She's not trained, sure she's fit. But can she go head to head with a career? Hell no, she saw some of them train, they weren't even trying and she can tell they'd know how to kill her in at least 12 different ways.

What chance does she have against them? Not only that, there's the insufferable asshole from 1. Not apart of the career pack, but a career, nevertheless. His smug indifference even when in the face of 2's pissy fit was impressive. She'll begrudgingly give him that.

She'd like to think she'd be the same. But that's usually when at school, around other nobodies like her, people who only know how to scarp, pull hair, scratch or bite. He, he knows how to kill. She'd flinch under 2's heated glare, she knows that much. The fact the asshole didn't. It's unnerving.

Then there's 7's huge motherfucker. Holy shit, she doesn't even want to think about him. He's a flee on sight. _Thankfully_, she'd see him a mile away. _Yay_ for small mercies, she can see her imminent doom from 30 minutes away, she's _so_ grateful!

The guy from 11 pisses her off, acting like a posh bastard. Like she doesn't need to put up with entitled know-it-alls at work enough, know she gets to spend the possible last few days of her life around them in the flipping arena too? He's _exactly_ her type, she's so _thankful_!

_Knock._

"Destry? Are you in there?" Someone asks, their tone is soft even when speaking loudly, so its probably Paulina.

"No, I've already hung myself, this is my ghost talking to you," Destry calls out with a roll of her eye.

Silence for a second then the door slides open. Destry goes into high alert, sitting up and tucking her legs back and under her, ready to spring at any moment. The door can be opened on the other side!?

Of course, it can, she reprimands, that's how she gets in. The real question is, why the hell did Glaphyra leave then?

"Destry…" her mentor says in a disappointed tone.

"Piss off, don't fucking try to guilt-trip me. I don't need your stupid preparations," Destry responds petulantly as she crosses her arms defiantly.

"Will you at least tell me why?"

"Sure, while I'm at it, let me tell you all about my family life on the balcony with some tea too," she answers sarcastically.

Paulina sighs, "I understand."

Destry twitches. _No, you fucking don't. Why does everyone think they know me. Stop jumping to conclusions. _

"If you do, then leave me alone. I want to sleep in. Where I'm going, I won't get another chance," Destry says, pausing as she ponders it, "well, until the dirt nap that is."

* * *

_POV – Corolla Beron_

_10:02AM_

She makes sure to never be alone in the room with Karan. Cory's stuck to her mentor like glue, not that Circe even notices sometimes, that woman is beyond spacey. It makes Cory wonder just what Circe went through in the games to be such an empty frame like that.

She knows it has to be bad, the games are intuitively a disaster zone. 24 go in, 1 comes out. Not even full themselves. She's seen some of the mentors in the lobby before heading out to do whatever it is mentors do.

Some look hammered, like the man from 8, others' look like they could blow over, like the mentors from 10. 3's is so skittish and 5's looks cooked out of her mind. The kind of drugs you'd expect from a victor from 6. Yet, all she has is Circe, the ghost of a mentor, speaks in one word, glassy gaze, slow and soft movements. Icarus is just plain annoying, still acts like a kid, he acts the age he was when he won his games, almost like he's never grown out of it.

"Corolla dear, you shouldn't space out when your stylists are talking to you," Karan chides gently, crinkling his eyes as he gives a dazzling smile.

It makes Cory's skin crawl.

"Ah, yes, right. You were saying?" Cory recovers, turning to her stylist.

She hasn't bothered to remember her name, not that she remembers the woman giving one.

"You're very tall, so we don't need to use large heels for you, should make walking easier, I think I have a dress idea for you as well, something that will really pop when contrasting against your skin,"

Cory tilts her head, feeling as if she should get defensive, but not having the slightest idea about what.

"I… right.

"Yes, you're one of the tallest tributes I've worked with in a while. I can get away with longer designs, it's simply wonderful. Please put these heels on, walk around in them," The stylist chatters excitably, seemingly lost in her own world.

Cory obliges the designer and slips the heels on. She'd be surprised at how perfectly it snugs her foot, but then she recalls the brutal few hours before the parade, so she wouldn't be surprised if her stylist knew more about her than she knows about herself.

She starts to walk around the room with practiced ease. It's all about maintaining balance really. She worked in a tavern, mostly to clean yes, but she did wait on occasion when she had to fill in for Electra. Maneuvering and navigating through the sea of drunken people is second nature for her.

"Oh my, you're quite the natural," The woman says as she makes her way out of the room.

Cory allows a smile, happy to be recognized, even if for something so nonsensical as walking.

"Indeed, you'll be stunning in your dress, of that I have no doubt," Karan adds.

"Thank-you," Cory answers impassively, her face thinning at his voice.

"Correct," Circe agrees.

"What angle are we going to go after?" The stylist asks, bringing out a large movable clothing rack.

Cory furrows her brows.

"Interview my dear, for the interview tomorrow."

"Oooh…" She murmurs.

Cory hasn't given it thought, she just half expected the stylists would tell her, isn't that the point of today? To be guided, molded in a shape that will charm the Capitolite hearts?

"I… could just be me?" She says tentatively, her hesitance bleeding into questioning.

"Hmm, well, tell me about yourself then,"

"Huh."

"Yes, sell yourself, what makes you, memorable?"

Cory takes a seat, giving the question some thought. What makes Cory stand above the other 23?

"Well… I'm smart. I, I'm outspoken too- I can be," She corrects when Karan and her stylist give skeptical looks.

Why are they looking at her like that? She's perfectly sociable when she wants to be. It just so happens that maintaining a façade while in the games feels like such a waste of time. She can die at any moment in that arena, why bother with airs. She might as well call it how she sees it.

"Continue, what else? You're smart and outspoken, what about home? What's it like?"

Cory blinks, "it's… it's okay."

"Oh, is there a story there?" Her stylist asks, wiggling her incredibly fake eyelashes.

"What would I even tell you? I have loving uncles who take care of me. My family life's perfect," Cory responds, putting on her best fake smile.

Thing is, she's telling the truth. Uncle Axle does, did so much for her growing up. Her mother died giving birth to her, and her father was killed by peacekeepers not too long after. She barely remembers what he looks like. Whenever she tries, all she can see is a silhouette and shadowed face. His name was Ona, her uncle at least told her that much.

But she's getting sidetracked. After Ona died, she was orphaned. Situations like those are common in 6. Parentless children, orphans make up the majority of children in lower 6.

Thankfully, her uncle saw it as his duty to care for her. Instead of tossing her to the system, he chose to raise her, chose to pick up the cash sink that it is to raise a young child. She'll say it time and time again, she owes everything to her uncle.

But even then, even though she's showered with love, and she knows she is, she still doesn't feel like she truly belongs. She feels like an outsider. The love she receives, it's suffocating. Like she's treated as a guest rather than a family member, they made sure her needs are met before anyone else's.

In their eyes, under her uncles' perspective, Cory can't do wrong. Her uncles never got mad at her, always making sure she's happy before they themselves are. She could tell when they fake it, where else would she have learned such a masterful facade?

She doesn't want that from them, she doesn't- didn't want them to sacrifice everything for her. Is she selfish, to still want something from her uncles despite receiving anything she could ever ask for? Is it weird to want to be reprimanded, to be told no? To be scolded when she steps out of line, or to disciplined when she acts out?

"Corolla dear, are you alright?" the stylist asks.

Cory blinks seemingly waking from her stupor. Thinking of her uncles, thinking of home given her circumstances, doesn't do anything for her mood. But she can't bring herself to talk about it to her creepy escort or oblivious stylist. She's an outsider, from start to finish.

"Of course. I'm perfectly fine."

* * *

_POV – Mila Carway_

_2:22PM_

Mila delicately makes her way to the table, outstretching her arms for balance. She's never worn heels before, never had the chance. If anything, she's probably gone her life more without shoes on, let alone even think of using heels.

But, Primrose and her stylist insist, so here she is, walking around in these pointy contraptions to get accustomed to it.

Unless she's going for a clumsy angle, she shouldn't trip over herself is what the stylist said. In fact, given the angle she's decided on, she needs to cram rigorous hours in just walking alone, to give off a 'mysterious allure' as her incessant stylist put it.

Mila finally gets to the table and reaches for the chair for support. She quickly sits down stares at the plate full of steaming hearty food. She turns to face the retreating Avox.

They're good she concedes, wordlessly turning to eat her food.

It couldn't have been more than a minute before she notices Judah from the corner of her eye. He sits across from her, and he too, is quickly served by the Avox servants.

"How's your day been?" He asks casually.

Mila shrugs, as she shovels a forkful of food into her mouth.

"Ever the pragmatic conversationalist. How did your alliance with Cyrus go?"

Mila stiffens, her gaze going from the food to her district partner. She stares, her icy grey orbs narrowing dangerously. Judah quickly raises his hands in surrender.

"I meant nothing by it. I'm simply curious, surely you can indulge this one whimsical thought?"

Sure, might as well tell him everything while she's at it.

"We're not allies."

"Oh?" Judah says quickly, too quickly.

As if he's eager, excited by the notion. Mila isn't oblivious. The two of them have been playing the same game, find an 'ally' to do their bidding for them. For Judah, he wants someone to compensate his sickness. Mila on the other hand simply wants to thin down the numbers in a relatively safe manner while securing immediate resources.

Both, however, don't have any intention of being good allies. Maybe that's why they didn't find any. Cyrus, although nice, was surprisingly guarded around her. Mila couldn't understand why, but after seeing the flirty girl talk to others, it's safe to assume she's simply timid around girls in particular.

No clue why. History maybe, but even then that's a jump of logic. All Mila knows is that when she offered the idea of an alliance, Cyrus turned her down gently.

Mila even put her best effort into that performance. A disappointment really. But, she'll manage. She always does, always pull through. This time too, even in the worst possible situation, Mila will come out on top.

"Say, Judah, want to be my ally?" She asks innocently.

He blinks before scoffing. He quickly masks it behind laughter.

"You jest. You'd kill me after all," he reveals easily.

Perhaps the reveal should hold some significance or weight behind it. Discovered so soon, her veiled intentions revealed. But she knows she wasn't subtle about it during reapings. And her district partner is perceptive if nothing else.

"Can't hurt a gal for trying," she allows with a shrug.

He chuckles this time, more genuinely, "I'm enjoying this chatty side of you."

"Don't get too comfortable," she says, a smirk playing at her lips.

"I'd never. Although, if you don't intend to create an alliance with Cyrus, you wouldn't oppose me attempting to?"

Mila shrugs. Good luck with that, she thinks sarcastically. She pauses and gives the idea some more thought, her hand going to her chin and gaze staring into the distance. She blinks before looking over her district partner, starting with his sharp grey eyes, to his angular face. He's handsome, she concedes. Cyrus might actually go for it.

"Well then, I guess I should be on my way. Pleasure speaking to you as always, Mila."

She rolls her eyes but nods towards him. He stands from the table and heads towards the elevator. Mila's focus goes back to her food, but she does absently hear the hum of the elevator doors sliding open and close.

Judah's persistent, she won't deny that. He's constantly talking to her, perfectly content with being the only person to chat at times. In a sense, Mila feels almost comfortable by it. A piece of home. That isn't to say she trusts him, far from it. Judah's sharp, and if he weren't so sick, she'd genuinely fear him.

But, given his sickness, he's as harmless as they come. So, perhaps she's allowing some form of complacency, she doubts it's anything he can capitalize on. Besides, his way of talking is funny, it's entertaining.

"Mila? How's are the heels?"

Mila turns to the voice, seeing her mentor walk down the hall, into the main room.

"I'll be ready for tomorrow," she answers.

Primrose nods, "that's good," she stops by the table, looking over the room, "where's Judah?"

Mila doesn't see the point of lying, so she answers simply, "looking for Cyrus."

"Why?"

"To form an alliance, I believe."

Primrose's expression becomes conflicted, causing Mila to tilt her head. It clicks a second later, Primrose has been pushing for an alliance between Judah and her the most. She's probably not happy seeing her tributes openly disregard her opinion.

Primrose wouldn't understand. Mila doesn't want an ally, not actually. Just someone she can get rid of easily and get away with the resources herself. Judah can't even get resources, what good would an alliance with him even do for her?

Besides, she doesn't want to be the one to kill him. Not anymore at least. She would do it if it came down to the two of them. Something tells her that's not going to happen. However, she doesn't want to be the one responsible for it.

In a sense, Judah's managed to convince her not to kill him. However, that doesn't mean she'd ally with him. He's dead weight no matter how one cuts it. She's better off working on her own than with him. But until she's tossed into the arena, she won't oppose his company, not anymore.

* * *

_POV – Locust Sequoia_

_5:47PM_

Locust looks at the clock and stands from the sofa. The scores are going to be revealed at 6 and as such, the group is to meet up at that time. To check threats and discuss the bloodbath. Locust doesn't oppose the idea.

The Hunger Games isn't something one can get by through winging it, some manner of planning can go a long way, especially for what can be arguably the most volatile moment of the games. Locust slips into the elevator and presses for his desired floor.

The elevator zooms downwards, and in a matter of seconds, he hears a ding as the door slides open. He looks over the room, counting four heads. He's the last to show up, he realizes belatedly.

"I'm sorry," he says as he steps into district 2's floor.

"Hey there Locust!" Emerald greets excitably.

"You're right on time, don't worry about it," Remy dismisses.

Locust shrugs and makes his way over to the pack. They're all currently sitting at the U-shaped couch. It's big enough to carry all 5 of them, even with Locust's stature. He sits between Remy and Emerald, although saying as such would be misleading. There's plenty of space between all of them really.

Remy reaches for the rectangular device and turns the tv on. It flickers to live and Augustus Flickerman appears in a dazzling diamond suit, sitting at a desk with some papers in hand. His background is entirely black, only further bringing out the man's vibrant red hair and sparkly shiny suit.

Locust ignores it in favour of examining the massive flat-screen TV. He's never been one for materialistic goods, such as TVs. It goes against the necessary pragmatism that comes with taking care of 6 younger siblings. They made their own fun mostly too.

"Chips? I heard the potatoes are imported from 11 and made somewhere here, they taste sooo good," Emerald offers, outstretching her hand.

She's holding a bag ripped at the top. Locust looks at it with a puzzled expression before he shakes his head.

"No, thank-you."

"Alright, but don't be a stranger. Just ask me if you change your mind," she says with a smile.

Locust doesn't get the chance to say anything more, as the anthem starts to play. He looks around him and notices no one stands for it. Remy's drinking from a bottle. Kyra reaching for the bag Emerald's offering and Mischa looks deep in thought, with furrowed brows and a faraway gaze.

The anthem ends and the host begins with the production.

"I'm your host, Augustus Flickerman, and this is the 99th Hunger Games tribute training scores. I know you all are just eager to find, so I'll dive right into District 1!"

From the corner of his eyes, Locust notices Mischa tense, as she holds her hands together. Her almost deep-in-thought look morphs into a hardened expression. Is she anxious?"

"From District 1, Midnight Tyrian, with a score of…" The master of ceremonies pauses.

Locust takes the time to look over his allies. Kyra and Emerald don't appear all that interested and seem to be murmuring something quietly to each other. Remy, on the other hand, has long since abandoned the bottle and clearly holds a murderous gaze for the cocky tribute appearing on the screen.

Midnight's mohawk appears to be almost as iconic as his smug smirk and upwards tilted head as if he's looking down on everyone.

"… 9."

That seems to draw everyone's attention. Remy looks outraged but controls his temper with one deep breath.

"From District 1, Mischa Morrigan has a score of… 10."

"Nice going, Mischa!" Emerald congratulates first.

Kyra simply nods her way, and Locust too, adopts that manner of congratulations. Mischa almost sags into the couch but catches herself. She does allow a smile to faintly reach her lips and whispers a quick thanks.

10 is indeed impressive. Whatever she showed the gamemakers had to be deadly, survival skills won't accomplish that, Locust assumes. Then again, he always expected a career to score exceptionally well.

"From District 2, Remy Cartwright has the score of an 11," Augustus continues.

Remy smirks, and reaches for the bottle on the coffee table, very satisfied with his score.

"Oooh, Remy, that's really good!" Emerald compliments easily.

"I expected nothing less really," he says.

"Kyra Boldar, from district 2, with a score of 9."

Kyra looks conflicted but ultimately decides on smiling with her score. Locust suspects she wants better. She did the worst out of the official careers after all. Emerald congratulates her for the score, which erases any hints of dissatisfaction as she too shyly thanks the tribute from 5.

"District 3, Magnus Flux with a score of 9," Augustus says, his tone rising slightly as he finishes the sentence as if not expecting the score himself.

All sense of mirth leaves the room, and Remy hardens his gaze on the moving portrait. The stoic bald-headed tribute from 3 impassively stares back.

"We aren't going to let him join the ranks. However, keep a lookout for him. If he's armed don't take him 1 on 1," Remy warns.

The others nod in agreement, probably the only time there's a complete consensus.

"From District 3, Tesla Eddison, with a score of, 3."

Bloodbath, Locust concludes simply. Then again, the first few tributes have been so overwhelmingly strong that perhaps it's too soon to label her as such.

"Calder Lynch from District 4, he has a score of 7."

"Wow, I don't think I've seen scores these impressive in a long time, have you?" Emerald says loudly, before addressing the question to Kyra.

The raven-haired girl purses her lips and shakes her head, "closest would be the 91st Games."

"Erik Pineslow's games, yeah you're right! He scored a 9, all the careers averaged a 9, and the girl from 10 got an 11," Emerald recaps sagely.

Kyra nods her head in agreement, which in turn makes Locust quirk an eyebrow. Was Emerald always this knowledgeable about the games? Why would she be? She's not a career. Mischa and Remy seem to take notice of this, but don't say anything as their concentration refocuses back onto the tv.

"Newton Faraday from District 5-"

"Oh, I missed Cyrus' score," Emerald bemoans loudly.

"She got a 6," Mischa supplies quickly, her attention never leaving the tv.

"Thanks!'

"-score of 5."

"I'm next. Heehee, I'm getting a bit nervous," Emerald concedes.

"If you did what I told you, you should be fine," Remy reminds her tiredly.

"Emerald Locke from district 5, with a score of 8."

Emerald does a little dance from her seat and beams brightly. She turns to face Remy with an expectant glance. Locust too turns to face the alliance leader. It was his suggestion to invite her, and she did well enough, Locust feels. Still, if she's out, she's out.

"See," he says exasperatedly, "good enough to stay."

Emerald giggles excitably as she rubs the back of her head, "thanks."

"Anyways, with Calder, Magnus and Midnight, we have some threats so far," Remy starts.

The group peels their gaze off the short native-looking tribute on display in turn to face their leader. He's leaning forward, elbows resting on his legs as he looks over everyone.

"Correct, what are proposing?" Mischa asks.

"Obviously, they're targets, focus them down in pairs."

"Oh? Won't this get in the way of your monumental goal?"

"If you die to them, they get weapons and makes it harder for all of us," He dismisses with an eye roll before turning to face the blonde from 5, "Don't solo any of them, knife throwing is supportive, hitting moving targets is hard as is, but you're too weak to deal with them if they get on top of you."

Emerald nods her head, her friendly round eyes narrowing in seriousness. Locust ponders Remy's words himself, and wonders just how he can help. It doesn't take him long, if only because his quickest solution is probably the simplest.

"I have an idea," Locust says abruptly.

He receives everyone's attention, all of them completely turned away from the dark-skinned girl's score of 6.

"Let's hear it then," Remy says, giving his permission.

"I'll kill whichever one I'm closest to," Locust answers.

* * *

_POV – Velvet Snijder_

_6:16PM_

"Locust Sequoia from District 7, with a score of 11."

Nylon whistles lowly, "That score surprises a total of zero people."

Velvet grimaces, but nods. Between 1 and 2, boys from 3 and 4, and the girl from 5, they have some really high scores. And now another 11 from Locust. Well, Nylon's right that she suspected him to have a high score, but that only adds to the pile of tributes to worry about.

"Do you think we should still rush the cornucopia?" Sela asks from the opposite corner of the couch.

Velvet invited the pair from 9 to her floor, seeing as the four of them have an alliance. It'll be good to be on the same page, as they'll only have tomorrow to plan. With the scores going on though, it'll be the easiest way to coax Nylon to pay attention.

He wasn't happy thinking about the games when she sprung the alliance on him, but as she guessed, he forgave her easily. He seems more than fine letting her call all of the shots, only adding colour commentary when he wants to.

"I believe we'll need the equipment even more than before," Harvest adds.

Velvet contemplates it for a second before nodding her head, "I agree. We'll need supplies for the four of us. I don't know about you two, but Nylon and I probably won't be able to live off the wild."

Nylon gasps, "are you sleeping on us? How could you."

Sela looks between the two before nodding uneasily, "okay. We shouldn't go for the center though, that's where all of the threats will be."

"Stay away from the trained killers? Now you're talking my language," Nylon comments.

"Velvet Snijder from District 8, with a score of 5."

Everyone turns to face the score, then turns to face Velvet. She grimaces at it. She has an idea of why her score is so low. She took a risk, trapped the entrance, and needed Harvest to trip it. Something she realizes requires sort of sabotaging her ally, but at the time, it felt like the right way to convey her skills.

"Sorry about that, by the way."

"Apology accepted," Harvest answers instantly.

"Wait, what happened?"

"Velvet trapped the entrance, so when Harvest went for his private session he tripped it. He avoided the trap in time though," Sela supplies.

"Wow, Velvet how mischievous of you!" Nylon exclaims.

"Not mischievous enough," She says with a shrug.

"From District 9. Harvest Henderson has a score of 6."

Velvet's eyes travel to her ally. He remains perfectly impassive, betraying nothing on his thoughts or feelings. He scored better than her, and maybe Nylon. She didn't pay attention to his score, too caught up in their conversation.

No one congratulates him though, as a score of 6 doesn't seem like a score any of them feels warrants congratulations.

"Sela Fields from District 9 has a score of 5."

The room is quiet, very quiet. Velvet is kind of glad her mentors or escort isn't here. She doubts they'd say anything that could encourage the group. Anything they would say would be superficial at best, they aren't going into the arena to fight to the death. Two 5s, one 6 and whatever Nylon scored, which can't be all that higher than them.

It's a bleak outcome, and the silence is starting to become suffocating.

"Ohh, uh, who's kicking the bucket first? Money's on me if I'm being honest," Nylon says, breaking the silence.

Velvet snorts and is quite thankful for his intervention, "with that attitude I'm hard-pressed not to bet on you too."

"You wound me, my dear ally," Nylon says in mock pain, a hand going to his chest.

"Not as badly as the others will."

Nylon cackles, "too true!"

"Our scores are shit," Velvet says, changing the topic.

Three pairs of eyes turn to her, not refuting the comment but not particularly liking it. She has their attention though, and that's good enough.

"Our scores are shit, but you know what? Screw it. All scores help with is secure sponsors, we don't need those," Velvet repeats before explaining.

"Sponsors give an adv-"

"That's all they do, give an advantage, if we get gear in the bloodbath, we won't need sponsors, our scores mean people will underestimate us too," Velvet interrupts, turning to face Harvest.

He shrugs but ultimately relents the point.

"Frankly, being underestimated is good for us, we can bait stronger threats into traps and kill them," Velvet reasons.

She wonders if she should be surprised that she can think of killing others so easily. But the scores are a wake-up call. Her position, even with this alliance can be considered bad. Velvet's used to it though.

Her whole life can be considered a bad position, from the moment her mom passed away, to the moment her dad developed agoraphobia. Baize and she have lived their whole lives looking out for one another, putting food on the table and money in their pockets.

Even if it meant taking the money from the pocket of others. She's a survivor through and through. So, getting a subpar score won't deter her, and it'll be a cold day in hell before she lets it distract her allies too. Velvet clears her throat, drawing her allies' attention.

"Here's the plan. We gather whatever resources we can, then meet up away from the cornucopia. Go for whatever is closest then get the hell away. More specifically, go back to your pedestal. The cornucopia faces one direction, so from your pedestal go to the one that directly aligns with the cornucopia's opening. We'll meet up and take it from there. Questions?"

Nylon instantly raises his hand.

"Yep?"

"Yeah, hi, uh, when did you plan this and why wasn't I apart of the meeting?"

Velvet stares in a deadpan, "today and because I didn't want to waste either of our time trying to get you to help. Any other questions?"

"Fair enough," Nylon concedes with a shrug.

Harvest raises his hand too, emulating Nylon.

"Yes, Harvest?"

"Would it not be better to work in pairs?"

"Takes too long to meet up, by then the careers will be hacking away."

"Ah, I understand."

"I have a question," Sela says.

"Raise your hand if you want to speak to the teacher," Nylon chides, pointing an accusing finger at the former blonde.

"Nylon, no speaking," Velvet says, rolling her eyes as he zips his mouth shut and tosses an imaginary key.

Sela shakes her head but obliges Nylon's silly request. It makes Velvet duck her head in defeat, sighing exasperatedly. She does smile at least, happy to see everyone's mood is lifted.

"Yes, Sela?"

"What if only 3 of us show up?"

Velvet frowns, furrowing her brows. That's a heavy question, although an expected one. There's four of them, it'll be ideal if they all survive. But, idealism isn't something to rely on in the arena.

"Then, we wait for 15 seconds, either looking for them or their corpse. Either way, we leave afterward. Is that fair?"

"I think it's for the best, thank-you," Sela agrees, a gentle smile on her face.

"Oh you, you'll make me blush," Velvet says, waving off Sela's gratitude.

"Enough with all of this seriousness though, it's about time we crack open those bottles back there!" Velvet declares.

"A Kevlar impression! I need to see your Kevlar impression," Nylon says, eager at the idea.

Velvet grins, she's hasn't attempted an impression before, but there's no time better than the present.

"I… uh, I don't know if that's a good idea," Sela says hesitantly, her smile falling for a nervous grimace.

Harvest shrugs, "sure."

Sela whirls on her district partner, eyes wide, "Harvest? Why?"

"You only live once?" He supplies confusedly.

Nylon snorts, "did you just yolo her?"

"I think he did, on that note he's drinking first!" Velvet cheers, standing up from the couch.

She stops and turns to face Sela, she leans down closer to the girl and speaks softly, "you don't have to drink with us, we're only going to try it."

A full-blown lie.

"I… no, it's fine. I'll have some too, please."

"Coming right up," Velvet says loudly, spinning on her heels and beelining towards the bar.

Her demure polite side is cute, Velvet thinks. She wants to see her drunk, she realizes mischievously.

* * *

_POV – Cyrus Waterlily_

_7:02PM _

The program ends, prompting Cyrus to raise her arms and stretch. She sighs in relief as she sags back into the couch.

"So, what do you think?" Coral asks.

Cyrus teeters her hand back and forth, "I think a 6 is pretty good. I guess I'm a bit rusty."

"Rusty how? What did you show the gamemakers?"

"I used a trident, it's been a while, you don't need a trident to fish," She explains with a shrug.

"Trident? Did you use to go to Atlantis?"

"Mhm, I doubt you'd remember me, but we used to be in the same year for a bit."

Coral pales, and Cyrus laughs at her, "aweh, you forgot about me? I'm utterly heartbroken."

"Yeah, yeah, laugh it up. I seriously don't remember you though."

Cyrus brushes it off, "I stuck mostly to myself, the other girls were kind of rude."

"Oh… sorry to hear that,"

"Nah, it's fine. Besides, I never intended to actually volunteer for the games, my reason… well, it's kind of funny actually, but the reason I joined the academy was to learn how to use a spear."

"Oh? That's fine, some other trainees only want to have a basic grasp to protect themselves too."

Cyrus tilts her head, before her eyes light up, "Oooh, no, nothing like that. I wanted to learn how to use a spear to I could better help my pa."

Coral furrows her brows in confusion, so Cyrus decides to explain, "for fishing, he owned a fishing business, I wanted to help. I did some spearfishing on the side."

"Spearfishing?" Her mentor repeats back incredulously.

"Mhm, it takes a lot of practice, hence why I joined Atlantis."

"Huh, you learn something new every day. I guess your dad's proud?"

Cyrus's smile strains and she develops a faraway look, "y-yeah… he definitely was."

Coral pales, "o-oh, I'm so so-"

'No, no, it's fine!" Cyrus shakes her head and quickly stops her mentor's frantic apology, "I just miss him is all. I shouldn't have gotten all mopey about it. I should be the one saying sorry."

Coral frowns, "hell no. Never apologize for thinking about family, especially not to me."

Cyrus blinks numbly at her mentor. Her mouth breaks into a smile as she nods her thanks. Cyrus never had many friends growing up. The girls made fun of her name or didn't like her lack of effort in the academy. The drama that came with it firmly deterred Cyrus from making female friends altogether. Not that she can't be cordial, she just much prefers guy friends. Less drama.

As a result, though, she did end up becoming more boyish, which with her name, only further made girls talk behind her back. Which in turn continued the cycle. The notion makes her chuckle. First her mentor, who's just as old as her really. Then, Mila who seems nice, and even Emerald who's just as friendly. She can't help but think it funny. To think the kindest girls, she met are one's she'll either need to kill or die to.

"You're pretty cool Coral. I think I'd like to have been your friend growing up."

"Yeah? How about after these games we catch up then, make up for lost time?"

Cyrus smiles, "I'd like that. But I do need to win first."

"That's what I'm here for. I know the career mentality inside and out. You got a decent score, know how to work the crowd and can spear fish! Do you know any other survival skills?" Coral asks, a plan formulating.

"Yep, if there's water, I'll be set."

"Perfect. We already went over your interview angle. What about allies? I know Calder's not interested, for whatever stupid reason," her mentor finishes with a grumble.

Cyrus laughs softly, "I can't force him to work with me. I was approached by the girl from 12, but I turned it down. Funnily enough, I was approached by the guy from 12 too, Judah. I don't think the two are working together."

"Okay, thoughts on him?"

"He's friendly and tall. His jawline is nice too," Cyrus supplies.

"As an ally," Coral corrects.

"Yeah, I know," Cyrus says seriously.

She keeps her face straight for a few seconds longer before breaking into laughter, "okay, okay. He's not bad. He sounds very reliable."

"But, do you feel like he can help you? His score was kind of abysmal."

"Yeah, sure," Cyrus reasons.

"Sure?"

"I mean, I don't have any other alliance options at the moment, and you said it's the best choice, right?"

"I suppose, fine. If you want to work with him, then go for it. But, keep on eye out. Always stay vigilant when you're in the arena."

"Yes ma'am," Cyrus says, saluting.

Coral rolls her eyes before deciding to change the topic, "hungry? Let's order something."

"Sure, I could go for food. Lobster tastes so good, can we get that?"

"I don't see why not," Coral says before turning to an Avox.

She puts in the order and the two go to take a seat at the table. The elevator dings and the doors slide open. Calder comes marching into the room, his hands buried in his pockets.

"Hey there Calder," Cyrus greets, already knowing the response she'll get.

The ginger tribute flinches and turns to the sound, his eyes in high alert. Once he figures out who greeted him, his face falls back into an apprehensive scowl.

"Hello," he greets curtly.

Cyrus smiles warmly at him and waves anyways, "we're getting lobster right now, want some?"

"No thanks," He says.

Calder doesn't waste any more time and heads into his room. Coral's shaking her head at the ordeal.

"He's such an idiot. He should be working with you."

"It's fine. I think he has an alliance already."

"Calder? Unlikely, he doesn't talk to anyone, hardly speaks to Flo as is," Coral dismisses unbelievingly.

Cyrus knows better. Honestly, if he wants to work with those kids, she's okay with that. Actually, she finds it very sweet. It, at the very least, shows he's not all bad, and that he has a side to him that's kind. Maybe she can talk to him during the games, work something out.

Can't hurt to try.

* * *

**Author Note: Most scores were shown, but some didn't make it. I have them posted down here though.**

**Midnight Tyrian: 9 / ****Mischa Morrigan: 10**

**Remy Cartwright: 11 / ****Kyra Boldar: 9**

**Magnus Flux: 9 / ****Tesla Eddison: 3**

**Calder Lynch: 7 / ****Cyrus Waterlily: 6**

**Newton Faraday: 5 / ****Emerald Locke: 8**

**Vortex Senna: 4 / ****Corolla Beron: 6**

**Locust Sequoia: 11 / ****Hazel Redford: 2**

**Nylon Hemmings: 5 / ****Velvet Snijder: 5**

**Harvest Henderson: 6 / ****Sela Fields: 5**

**Cooper Dawson: 3 / ****Destry Coleman: 6**

**Harrison Jones: 7 / ****Adalyn Plumm: 5**

**Judah Rockefeller: 2 / ****Mila Carway: 5**

**I'll explain my score criteria. I put an emphasis on combat and weapon mastery more than survival. Age too plays a factor. I also considered gamemaker fatigue, as they'd likely just want things to be over with roughly around District 7. Which means tributes afterward get lower scores naturally. Additionally, another factor I had when giving these scores was thinking about how each tribute would fair in a 1v1. Those who have higher scores technically should win the fights. That's the thought process. However, these scores aren't the objective set in stone way the story will go. The Hunger Games are volatile, and I plan to capitalize on that. Until the next chapter! We have Interviews next.**

**On another note, I PMed all of my submitters. I got a few answers back already, so thanks so much for responding! I do want to say that I'm going to assume anyone who doesn't respond isn't reading/on the site anymore though. You still have time to respond, I'm not going to start writing the bloodbath until Interviews are done anyways. **


	20. The Light Show

_POV – Midnight Tyrian_

_3:57PM_

Midnight buries his hands in his pants pockets as he sighs tiredly. Parading for this audience was annoying enough, but now to feign interest and entertain them? He shakes his head, the only consolation he has is that he's going first.

He holds all the cards, he sets the tone.

Midnight tilts his head back, and sneaks a glance at the lineup behind him. The anxious energy buzzing behind him is almost palpable, certainly chaotic though. The hallway itself is dimly lit. He can only really make out silhouettes all the way at the back.

His gaze moves from the back of the line, directly to the front. Mischa looks stunning, he concedes. She wears a long draping black dress with a reddish-orange hue being contained within. She looks like lit charcoal, her dress practically glows in the hallway. It's a very form-fitting dress, practically framing her curves and muscles, it emphasizes both. The juxtaposition only seems to make her all the more captivating.

She wears long black gloves as well. Midnight wonders if it's to hide the scars and callouses of her training. He suspects as such, and if so has to begrudgingly admit the stylists keep everything in mind.

He himself doesn't look bad either. He wears a formfitting cherry red blazer over top a black vest and dress shirt. He wears pants as red as his blazer and a white tie to finish his ensemble. It's modest in comparison to Mischa's outfit.

But, being a Morrigan Sister by default makes one appear like a perfect model, so it would make sense she receives all the stops. It makes him frown despite his reasoning. He can't actually compete with her on this front.

She's well within her comfort zone he realizes. Mischa hardly seems fazed, when compared to say, Kyra, who looks as if she wants the world to eat her up whole. The comparison only further demonstrates his district partner's capabilities. She scored a 10 too.

Midnight's 9 looks measly compared to the 10 and 11's on the board. He knows the question will come, he's prepared for it. He knows he could have scored better, but at the time, he wanted a 9. The fact he got what he sought to get should do more than enough to placate his worries.

But, if he gets swept to the sidelines simply because he didn't commit entirely to the private sessions, it'd be a pretty significant fuck up. He can't afford any with his intentions to tackle these games solo. It's why despite not wanting to even partake in these interviews, he understands the purpose, and value of going first.

"Welcome all to the 99th Hunger Games Interviews! I'm your host, Augustus Flickerman! How is everyone doing this fine afternoon?"

The cheers are booming as they vibrate down the hallway. It prompts Midnight to straighten his posture, the intensity drawing his focus. He stares down the hallway, leading to the opening that reveals the stage. Augustus has a massive grin on his face as he makes his way to one of the two chairs.

Midnight takes a steadying breath, calming his nerves. He sneaks a glance behind him, looking at the careers. Mischa's looking straight ahead, onto the stage, but her expression is unreadable. Remy's far too smug for his liking and Kyra's as pale as a ghost.

"Now, let us begin with our first tribute, Midnight Tyrian from District 1," Augustus says.

A man in a black suit walks up to him, likely his usher. Midnight quickly ignores him in favour of listening to the cheers and clapping. It prompts a smirk from him. He turns to face the pack clearly, drawing all of their stares onto him.

"Let me show you how it's done, take notes Remy," Midnight says, his own blue eyes trailing onto the male from 2.

Remy's gaze hardens murderously, but he doesn't say anything. It's good enough for Midnight who cackles as he turns towards the stage. He waves as he marches forward.

Leaving the comforts of the shadowy veil that is the hallway arguably makes him anxious. But, the first step into the limelight hardens his resolve, as well as nearly blind him. He refuses to shield his eyes, and only narrows them before making his way to Augustus, the host is already standing and offering a hand.

"Ahh, Midnight, you look very handsome in that," Augustus greets smoothly.

Midnight quirks an eyebrow, but smirks, "thanks, you don't look too bad yourself."

The audience chuckles, as does Augustus, "high praises I'm sure. Please take a seat," the man finishes with a pearly white grin.

Midnight doesn't refute the comment and merely shrugs as he plops onto the soft white chair.

"So tell me Midnight, how has your experience in the Capitol been so far?" Augustus asks, diving right into the interview.

Midnight shrugs, "It's been alright, love the accommodations though," he concedes.

Augustus laughs boisterously again. The loudness is obnoxious to him, and he's starting to strongly dislike it. As if grating his eardrums, Midnight smiles weakly in a futile effort to mask his growing agitation.

"Midnight, we saw that in the reapings that you volunteered. Could you share some insights as to why?"

Midnight looks at the host with a deadpan expression, is he serious? He does know he's a career, right? Or is he insinuating something with that comment? Midnight nearly bristles when it occurs to him that Augustus likely does, in fact, know. But, 'training' for the games isn't actually allowed, just ignored in certain districts. Just formalities then.

Midnight scoffs at the thought, his district was given the blessing to churn out tributes to fight in this game, like a factory, like his academy. He's of the opinion that everyone should train if they want. Makes it more entertaining for those in the Capitol, and he'd get a chance to show his talents even more.

In other words, let the bastards train, he'll win all the same.

"Midnight?" Augustus prompts.

Midnight nods his head, "aah, my bad there. Just found it funny. Someone already asked me that question before," he excuses.

"Ah, a mentor, or fellow tribute?"

"Yeah, one of them, anyway, I'll give you the same answer I gave them," he says, standing from his seat.

"I'm going to win these games! Stay tuned when I'm on the screen, I'll give you guys a treat," He concludes, landing back onto the chair with a satisfied smirk.

The audience roars in approval, only further pleasing him.

"And what is this treat you speak of? We're dying to know."

Midnight waggles his finger, "no can do. You'll just have to watch and find out, although, let's just say you won't be the only ones dying for my reveal."

"Oh ho! A bold claim, Well, we in the Capitol will just have to stay tuned."

"Ah, but I will tell you this one thing, I'm not going to be working with an alliance, as you'll probably realize, those after District 1 will leave a lot to be desired," Midnight finishes, a wicked grin plastering on his face.

The audience eats up the drama ravenously, and, how couldn't they? He just ended up belittling the entire career pack.

Ah, but he didn't actually, did he?

* * *

_POV – Tesla Eddison_

_4:48PM_

Tesla watches from one of the few monitors in the hallway. Her district partner, Magnus is acting so inconspicuous to the point it becomes conspicuous that he's trying to hide something. His answers are too quick, too rehearsed, it's almost like he knows what Augustus wants to ask.

An inside job, Tesla speculates. But, that just doesn't make any sense to her! Why would anyone want to go into these games willingly. The Careers don't count, they've been brainwashed since birth or something, they practically don't have a will of their own.

Speaking of the Careers though, they've all had very unique interviews that made them stand out in their own rights. The audience loves them.

Midnight was smug, but he kept adding a few tidbits here and there, so no one could really tell how he'd act. Surprise after surprise, when you thought he was just finishing, he reveals yet another thing. A wildcard through and through, everyone was at the edge of their seat with bated breath.

Mischa was so beautiful, like a princess. She has the poise, elegance and grace of one too. All her questions were answered smoothly and perfectly enunciated, Her voice is so light and melodious too, if not a princess, she could very well be an angel.

Where Midnight was smug, Remy was confident. His interview felt more like a post-hunger games celebration than a pre-game interview. He spoke of the changes he'd make in 2, and the joy of the district-wide tour. His blasé, self-assurance makes Tesla nervous. How could anyone possibly be that confident in themselves unless they were brainwashed?

Watching Kyra was surprisingly reassuring. She was shy, timid and stammered over her words, her face was fiery red the whole time. Tesla can relate, she can relate a lot! She doesn't really want to talk publicly in front of a crowd of people. But seeing Augustus ease Kyra into the interview at least makes Tesla feel more confident.

If a bloodthirsty career gets nervous, then it wouldn't be too bad if she does too, right?

"Now, the question on everyone's mind, Magnus, how did you score that 9? What did you show the gamemakers?"

"I achieved a 9 through demonstrating skills and proficiencies that would warrant the expected scoring. As to what I showed the gamemakers. I must humbly apologize as I cannot disclose that kind of information," comes the robotic and rehearsed response.

Tesla frowns as Augustus laughs at the remark. Magnus is just an enigma, a mystery that piqued Tesla' curiosity.

"Thanks so much, Magnus, may the odds be in your favour these Hunger Games!"

"Thank-you for your time," Magnus responds, shaking the hand one more time before heading to the opposite side of the stage.

Tesla, knowing what comes next, tenses as her nerves rear their head again. When she's finally starting to feel calm. Her muscles tense, and she starts to worry whether she'll trip over the heels she's made to wear.

"From District 3, the wonderful Tesla Eddison!" Augustus introduces with a flourish.

The suited man beside her gently pushes on her back, which is incentive enough to get her moving. She can feel her heartbeat, vibrating violently in her eardrums. It drowns out any other sound, causing her to tunnel. Her vision focuses solely at the end of the stage, where an expectant, cheerfully grinning Augustus awaits.

She can feel beads of sweat roll down the side of her face. Her vision feels spotty at the corner of her eyes. Wouldn't take an expert to know she's nervous, even she can tell that much, but even then, despite knowing, she can't do anything to alleviate it.

She can only wallow in her own nerves. Her throat feels tight, and her balance unsteady. Knowing is half the battle, an almost mantra-like phrase very common and familiar to the studious bunch in 3.

But knowing she's nervous and shy, will do absolutely nothing for her when facing seas of people. All who will be focusing on her. She has nowhere to hide, her only beacon of safety being the beaming interviewer.

She feels a bit like a boat lost out at sea, desperately not trying to sink for that matter. She takes a few gingerly steps onto the stage and towards the chairs.

"You look stunning my dear," Augustus says, standing beside her and offering a hand to lean on.

Like a lifeline, Tesla snatches onto it and nods shyly at his compliment. She doesn't think she's stunning at all, maybe a bit pretty, she'll concede. But only thanks to the stylists.

They fit her in a beautiful maroon dress, the same colour as the reddish streak in her hair. The white frills lining the bottom of the dress are also very cute.

Augustus expertly guides her to her seat, keeping a steady arm around her before plopping her onto the chair. She nods her thanks fervently, very grateful to be spared a possibly humiliating fall.

"I'm, I'm so sorry about that, I-"

"Nonsense, everyone can have jitters in front of a crowd, even I used to be the same back in my earlier days, isn't that right folks?" Augustus waves off as he addresses the audience.

They chuckle in response, and Tesla finds herself visibly deflating in relief. It's quite reassuring at least to know someone as charismatic as Augustus was ever nervous. She can't actually recall the games where he ever showed such a degree of shyness, so she quickly concludes he's only saying that to reassure her. It works like a charm regardless, the weight off her chest feels tremendous, and she feels like she can actually take a breath of air, without the stifling sensation.

"Tesla my dear, tell me, what has been the most memorable experience you've had in the Capitol so far?" Augustus prompts, with his signature pearly white smile.

Tesla feels magnetized to his smile. As if it draws her in like a moth to a flame. That's why he's the Master of Ceremonies, she concludes. Much like his father, Augustus just has a way to draw in people, a charisma that Tesla really wishes she had right about now.

"O-oh, I… uh, well, my favourite part has been-" She freezes, realizing that she doesn't have one.

How could she? She might have watched the games here or there, a morbid curiosity, nothing more. But to be apart of them, it's horrifying. Not to mention she spent all of her time trying to decipher the mystery that is "…Magnus."

"Oh?" Augustus says, his tone very amused by the response.

Colour rushes to Tesla's face. Great, she humiliated herself despite Augustus's efforts.

"Ah, so the two of you are allies then?" Augustus asks, moving the interview along.

Frankly, Tesla would like it to come to a complete halt. She needs to collect herself here. She just finished saying something a bit questionable, why is he taking it so swimmingly?!

"No, I meant, He's interesting, right? I… uh, well, I'm curious," She ends weakly.

After all, she was going to say she likes mysteries. But, what if it's misinterpreted. She doesn't want Magnus to get mad at her, if he's actually a double agent, he'd probably silence her before the games or something. She doesn't want to die before even having a chance of surviving!

"Aaah, I see, I understand. Tesla, would you say your inquisitive then? I heard that's a common trait of those in 3."

Tesla blinks at the question but nods slowly.

"I like- love to learn things," she answers after a moment's hesitation.

"That's wonderful, then, during training, what did you decide to learn?"

"I…" Tesla falters, the horrifying realization dawning on her.

Tesla spent most of her time watching Magnus, not learning. She just wanted to know what his deal was, why he was here, what organization he was apart of! Besides, she didn't really need to learn things, she already knew most of the plants and bugs, and knows plenty of survival tips.

But, saying she didn't learn anything would not only sound conceited, but it would also just come across as incredibly arrogant. Her score of 3 doesn't warrant that kind of confidence either way. Unless, of course, she was trying to make herself appear mysterious like Magnus…

It's not something she thought of until now, maybe sponsors would like that?

With the idea now firmly in her mind, she doubts she could refuse to try it. What does she even have to lose anyway? It's a desperation play created out of her own incompetence.

"Uhm… L-let's just say that what I learned. I didn't show."

"During the private sessions? is that why you scored a 3, Tesla?" Augustus says, sounding genuinely curious.

The audience hushes, and she can feel hundreds of eyes boring into her. Tesla feels her heart thumping. Can she actually get away with this? Can she lie to the entirety of Panem? Her left leg fidgets nervously, as she nods, not trusting her voice at that very moment.

She takes a moment, clearing her throat, "that's right. Y-you'll see my real score soon enough."

The crowd cheers, seemingly won over. It makes her feel tremendously relieved and she sags into her chair a little. She just needs to take this momentum into the games. That's easy, right? She just needs to use this hidden ability of hers to win.

Her relief quickly morphs into anxious trepidation.

* * *

_POV – Newton Faraday_

_5:19PM _

Newt fidgets on the spot, watching as Cyrus just about wraps up her interview. Calder went before her, and although stiff with his answers, he was at the very least cordial. His interview did end a bit sooner than expected though. So Newt knows that Augustus can call interviews early if he wants.

It makes Newt a bit nervous. Will Augustus cut him off if he stammers over his words too often?

He slaps his cheeks, letting the sting calm him down a little. He can't afford to panic now, right before his interview. As Daedalus put it, a soldier should always be composed.

And although Newt isn't a soldier, he might as well be. So, staying calm is important. It's just going to be a talk too, Newt loves those. He'll talk to anyone willing to listen, why should this situation be so different?

"You doing okay there Newt?" Emi whispers into his ear.

It startles him a bit as he jolts. He recovers though and laughs easily.

"Just a bit nur-nerve-nervous is all. Jitters, you know?"

"Aaaah, totally. Don't sweat it though, I'm sure you'll do great" Emi encourages easily.

Newt can't help but feel a bit skeptical. It's easy for her to feel care-free when she's a part of the career pack. Still, he supposes she's not wrong either. He stammers not because he's nervous, but because his tongue trips up easily. He can't control it, but maybe it adds to his charm?

"Thanks. You look nice in that too by the way," Newt compliments, gesturing to her dress.

It's a deep purple, which does well to bring out her eyes and hair, he thinks. It's a one-shoulder, slit dress. She wears good accessories and stockings too. He doesn't spend much time around Genera, his sister-in-law, but given her jewelry shop, it only makes sense he's learned a thing or two.

Newt nods to himself, yep. Emi looks very pretty.

"Aweh, thanks Newt, you're looking good yourself," She responds in kind.

He smiles, his cheeks feeling warm at the compliment. He's just wearing a dark blue and vertically white striped suit. Pales in comparison, he thinks.

"Thank-you so much for your time Cyrus," Augustus says, a little red in the cheeks himself.

"No thank-you, I had a lot of fun up here," Cyrus says sweetly, before waving to the crowd with a grin.

"Cyrus Waterlily everybody, give her roaring applause!" The interviewer finishes with a long flourish.

The cheers are almost deafening. Rightfully so, she was witty, beautiful and knew how to captivate the crowd. Yet, she didn't appear mystical or unreachable like the girl from 1. She was still down to earth and relatable. It was a phenomenal interview that received its praise in kind.

It admittedly makes Newt nervous again, how is he supposed to follow up Cyrus' showing?

"From District 5, Newton Faraday!" Augustus shouts.

"Good luck Newt," Emi says.

He nods slowly to her and takes a deep breath. He uses the few moments it takes to walk onto the stage to psyche himself up. There's nothing to be nervous about, he's just going to talk. He loves this, this is his element.

By the time he unveils himself to the audience, he has a wide grin and strides towards Augustus.

"Nice to metch-meet ya," Newt greets with an outstretched hand.

Augustus laughs as he shakes the hand, "Likewise Newton, please take a seat."

Newt plops onto the chair with a toothy grin, swaying from side to side as he waits for Augustus to talk.

The interviewer takes a moment to inspect Newt's rhythmic teetering before looking back to the audience with a funny look. They burst into laughter.

"Someone's a bit excitable, isn't he?" Augustus stage whispers to the crowd, which only prompts even further laughter.

Newt takes it in stride, relishes it even. This is fine, this is exactly what he likes, he's feeling more and more comfortable as the seconds tick away.

"Could you believe I was actul-actually nervous?" Newt says with a grin.

"Really, you don't strike me as shy at all," Augustus says, unbelieving.

"Yep. I wouldn't say I'm shy at all. But, the huge audience can to-tot-totally, totally fuck with a guy's mind!"

Augustus hesitates for a second before breaking into laughter, the audience, waiting for a reaction soon follow suit.

"My oh my, you have quite the mouth on you Newton,"

"Heehee, my bad. It just slips out!" Newt apologizes helplessly.

The audience chuckles again, and Newt preens a little under the positive reception.

"Oh, and please call me Newt, sounds much simpler,"

Augustus chuckles again, "Of course, Newt. Now tell me, what's been your favourite part of your Capitol experience so far?"

"The food, defin-definitely the food. First thing I did was stuff myself to the point of a food coma," Newt retells.

"Aaah. The Capitol does serve some good food, I can't deny."

"I'll fucking say, I couldn't stop! I've never ate half the foods I get served," Newt agrees easily, a large smile on his face as he pats his stomach.

"A favourite meal then?"

"There's this tender meat- I'm sorry I don't reme-remend-remember the name, but damn, it was so good. The sauce too, I think it was plum, holy hell, thing put me right to sleep, it did," Newt explains eagerly.

"I'm starting to salivate at the description, sounds like you enjoyed it. Now moving away from food, for now, tell me a bit about yourself Newt, what gives you the edge to win these games? You scored a 5, which is pretty standard for this batch of tributes, what makes you stand out?"

"Glad you ask Mister Flickerman. I have a few allies, so I know we can get far. But, I'm also a bit of a sca-scapper, scrapper myself," Newt quickly explains.

He starts to peel his jacket off and rolls up his left sleeve, up to his elbow. He reveals some jagged pink flesh, that never quite healed right.

"You see this, and this," Newt begins again, first pointing to his scar on the elbow, then the other on his chin, "I didn't get these because I wanted to. I've been in a few fights. I know how to take care of myself."

"Oh my, well, it's good to see you're fine,"

"You should see the other guy," Newt teases before laughing.

Augustus follows suit easily, "well then, I can't wait to see what you bring to the arena!"

Newt beams brightly as he slips his suit jacket on again.

* * *

_POV – Emerald Locke_

_5:30PM _

"Newt Faraday! Your tribute from 5, give him an applause!" Augustus says.

The crowd cheers for the departing boy and Emi feels a little proud at how well he did. It only took him a few moments to get right into the motion of things, a natural conversationalist. In a sense, it makes Emi eager and ready for her own interview. It looks like a lot of fun, she must admit.

"Now, may I welcome Emerald Locke onto the stage, your other tribute from District 5!"

That's her queue. Emerald squishes down her excess energy and marches onto the stage. She smiles widely to the crowd as she waves. Augustus extends a hand that she takes easily into a shake. She fixes her dress as she takes a seat.

"I must say, you look absolutely beautiful in that dress," Augustus compliments.

Her eyes crinkle in satisfaction as she grins, "thanks, but the stylists did all the work, honest!"

"Haha, modest too. Now tell me, What has been your most memorable moment in the Capitol so far?"

Emi straightens at the question, "that's kind of tricky, I really liked my time during the parade though. That was a lot of fun!"

"Ah yes, the Parade is the sponsors first taste at looking over the tributes. If you were seated before those sponsors now, what would you say to win them over?"

"Sponsor me, please?" Emi says with a grin.

Augustus chuckles, but can't say anything as Emi continues, "I'm kidding, I'm kidding. I'd tell them I'm a good bet. I'm working with a strong alliance, those from two, Mischa and Locust. All my allies are super strong, and I don't think I'd be allowed to join if I weren't too."

"Well put Emerald, that leads to my next question actually, what did you do to score such a high score in 8 points?"

"Glad you ask, I'll show you," Emi says, reaching down towards the slit in her dress, she reaches inside and fetches a concealed pen.

Augustus masks an awkward cough with a weak chuckle as Emi reveals the item. Said chuckles turns into sounds of awe as Emi begins to spin the pen on the tip of her finger. She nimbly transitions the pen from fingertip to fingertip. She pointedly looks away from her hand, towards the crowd with a beaming smile.

The audience seems enraptured by her little trick. She lets the pen fall and catches it before quickly passing the pen through her fingers. She deftly does a few more pen tricks before stopping to turn to look at Augustus.

"Very impressive Emerald, but it doesn't quite explain your 8," Augustus concedes, but his face remains skeptical.

Whether it's for dramatic effect or not, is unknown to Emi, she merely shrugs as she goes into her explanation.

"I'm very nimble with my hands. I showed the gamemakers my years of experience with throwing knives."

The audience seems very eager by that reveal, Augustus too, raises his eyebrows.

"That adds up, it's certainly very impressive. Could you, however, tell me how many years you've practiced?"

"Half a decade! Well, 4 years, but half a decade sounds much better."

"Could you tell us why?" Augustus persists, looking serious in his inquiry.

The audience hushes too, leaving the stage silent. All eyes train on her.

Emi's smile strains, but only marginally, she doubts anyone notices and clears her throat, "of course. My uncle- he's not actually, I just call him that, he decided to teach me. Uhm. Well, as to why, it's because of his son, my best friend, Sal. He died during the games."

There's an awkward silence that falls on the stage, it doesn't last at all, with Augustus quickly picking up the conversation again.

"I'm terribly sorry for your loss, could you tell us whi-"

"95th Games, Icarus Nishizawa's. Placed 22nd. Sal's death really affected Uncle, so he made sure if I ever got reaped, I'd be prepared."

"T-that's quite admirable, and tell me, do you feel prepared?" Augustus falters for a second, but quickly recovers.

"Absolutely, not only can I throw knives, I won't hesitate to," Emi starts cheerfully, but ends resolutely, the joyous twinkle in her eyes fading.

"Oh my, there's some bite underneath all of that cheer," Augustus jests, getting the audience to laugh.

Emi giggles, "You bet. I did say I was prepared after all."

"That you did," Augustus says.

The buzzer goes off, prompting the interviewer to jump to his feet, "Emerald Locke everyone, give her a round of applause!"

He finishes one mic in hand, the other outstretched for Emi to use to get to her feet. She bows and waves her hands as she walks back off stage.

She hears Augustus call for Vortex Senna as she makes her way towards her prep room. Every tribute receives one, it makes her feel special.

At the same time, she becomes aware of the fact countless tributes before her used these rooms, likely died only a mere 24 hours later. It's a bit chilling. It starts to make her wonder, is she really prepared? She answered as such, needing to at least appeal to sponsors.

The interviews are as pivotal to acquiring sponsors as the Parade is. She's watched countless Hunger Games, she knows what should work, what has worked.

She screamed her throat hoarse when she saw Sal speared through the first time. But she's watched games after games. Her hobbies, interests, daresay her very being revolved around the games the moment Sal died.

Not because she wished to avenge him, but to maintain his legacy. To be safe, to be prepared. But, what does that mean? Can she really say she is ready, is prepared? What entails prepared, is such a thing even possible for the Hunger Games?

Where she screamed until her voice gave out initially. Now she can watch her best friend- no, her only true friend die unflinchingly, even note the moment the life fades from his hazel brown eyes. Does that make her prepared?

She's practiced with knives for years, acquiring a deftness that would put her on par with some careers, she isn't out of shape either, albeit a bit petite. Does that make her prepared?

She scored an 8, secured an alliance with the strongest tributes possible, might have even garnered a sponsor or two. Does that make her prepared?

Emi closes her namesake eyes as she takes a steadying breath. She starts to slip out of her dress and puts on a shaky grin. She'll be in the arena in less than 24 hours anyways. So, it begs the question.

Does it even matter?

* * *

_POV – Hazel Redford_

_6:42PM_

After District 6 finish their interviews, there is a short 30-minute intermission. It allows Augustus Flickerman the time to wet his throat, and the audience a chance to get snacks or drink. A recent implementation to combat fatigue.

The rest of the tributes too, get something to drink. Juice or water though, and it comes in the form of sippy cups. A precaution to avoid any spills or stains that could ruin their immaculate ensembles. It was kind of funny seeing Locust drink from one, given his massive and bulky stature.

Speaking of ensembles though, Hazel wears a green dress, similar to the one she wears during the Parade. There are some glaring differences between the two getups. For starters, her skin isn't spray-painted green. And the plant-like motifs are considerably less prominent. No accessories either, which ultimately makes her dress considerably less thematic or fantastical. At least, this means her hair is styled in a braided bun, which she can excitably note, doesn't fall into her eyes.

She was super grateful when her stylists did that, seeming to take her concerns into consideration, even without her voicing them.

She sways from side to side, letting the minor movements distract her until her interview. Hazel's a bit nervous, as she'll be in front of a lot of people again. But, at the same time, it's a good nervous. She'll get to be met a bunch of people, and hopefully make a good impression on them.

So far, everyone, she's spoken to she's been able to befriend. Cooper, Calder, Newt, and Vortex too. Seeing more than half of them go up already helps to encourage her too, making her feel more confident and assured.

Calder was a bit prickly, but only because he didn't talk about fishes. If he did, he'd have brightened up and made everyone see how genuine his smile can get.

Newt's interview was very good, he's got a bit of a mouth, as Augustus said. But, he's so kind, and his food story was funny. Food coma can go by another term, postprandial somnolence, and it's predominantly caused by the amino acids found in meats, which explains why he got so drowsy after eating meaty foods!

Vortex was teasing and mischievous, but he looked like he was very comfortable on the stage, just like Newt. He talked about his friends a lot too, but not his family. It made her pause, and she worries if he's okay.

Hazel hopes she can be as comfortable as them on stage. She looks up to the monitor and sees as Locust answers one of Augustus's questions. She can't really retain much of it however, her focus is easily distracted by the hushed voices behind her.

"What is this supposed to be?" Someone whispers, drawing Hazel's attention entirely off the TV.

"I think you and I both know," another says.

"Are you… are you serious? Is this why you were by the bug station for so long?"

"Wasn't easy getting this, but those experts can be so easily distracted, thanks by the way,"

"I- uh, your welcome?" A new more monotonous voice responds, although a hint of confusion clearly bleeds through.

At this point, Hazel can't help but be drawn in by the conversation. She slowly inches towards it, looking for a proper way to introduce herself. She doesn't want to eavesdrop, after all.

"mhm, Taipan Beetles are small enough to hide, but you gotta watch for their mandibles man."

Hazel perks at the name, recognizing it easily.

"Taipan Beetles?" A final voice asks, skeptically but also curiously.

"They're very venomous bugs found in the forests close to 10 and 11, A muttation created by the Capitol. A mix between an inland taipan and a stag beetle," Hazel interjects, finding the perfect opportunity to insert herself into the conversation.

She's smiling brightly to the four tributes, who've all fallen silent at her explanation.

"Oooh, bingo, nice job! Name's Hazel, right? Nice to meet you," The closest boy says, grinning back at her with a thumbs up.

Hazel giggles as she nods her head quickly, "thank-you, it's nice to meet you too…" she pauses as she furrows her brows, attempting to recall a name she doubts she's heard before.

"Nylon, this is Velvet, Harvest, and Sela," Nylon quickly introduces.

Velvet smiles softly, almost knowingly. Harvest reaches and gives a handshake that nearly tosses Hazel off balance. Sela simply smiles sweetly at her, which Hazel quickly finds to be comforting.

"So, the Taipan Beetle is poisonous? How poisonous?" Sela asks seriously.

Hazel shakes her head, "they're venomous, not poisonous. They bite you and inject their toxins, instead of having you ingest them. But extremely! I read that a Taipan Beetle can kill an adult human in less than 5 minutes," she finishes with an excited gleam in her eye.

She blinks it away as she tilts her head. The others are silent, 3 heads turn to face Nylon with deadpan stares. He giggles nervously before raising his hands in surrender.

"Yeah, risky, but totally worth it, trust me. Besides, I die then, or I die later, why would I not take the chance?" Nylon reasons casually, shrugging his shoulders.

The three visibly relent in their stern glares, something Hazel doesn't think she'd be able to weather at all. She feels bad for him and pouts softly. She doesn't quite know what to say regarding his statement though. At least, there's something else that caught her attention.

"What chance?" She asks.

"Ah, we-"

"Nylon being a morbid clown, don't worry about him. Your information was very helpful though Hazel, thank-you so much," Velvet interrupts him and bends her knees a little to reach Hazel's eye level.

"Oh… uhm. Well, your welcome then," she answers back, smiling up to the four of them.

At that moment, loud gasps reverberate throughout the building, drawing in Hazel's attention again. She looks to the stage first, before turning her gaze to the TV. Locust is nodding his head slowly as he remains sitting perfectly straight in his chair, he makes it look puny in comparison.

"I have."

The gasps begin again, but Locust shoulders it all easily. Hazel can feel herself slowly edging forward, confused but curious.

"I'm not a good man. But I will do what is necessary to put food on the table for my siblings. I always fulfill my debts," Locust explains simply.

"Admirable, and, it's good to see you truly mean it. I can't say many people can claim to have killed for their family's sake, that's true conviction," Augustus says after a moment's pause.

"Thank-you."

Augustus responds, "No thank-you."

"Loc-", the interviewer starts, only to freeze entirely when he feels a hand fall on his shoulder.

"May I have a moment?"

"O-of course, the stage is yours, but only for a few seconds, so please make it quick," the interviewer recovers.

Locust stands from the chair and takes a few steps forward, towards the audience.

"I'm fully prepared to die. And, if it comes to it, know that I will give you all one hell of a light show before falling," he says, making his way backstage.

"Locust Sequoia, everyone, please give him a round of applause!" Augustus shouts.

The cheers start slow, like faint drizzle before transforming into an unrelenting typhoon of applause.

Hazel feels conflicted, her mouth thinning into a tiny frown. She feels as if she should be scared of Locust, anxious around a killer, but she can't bring herself to fear him. Well, not fear him for being a killer at least.

She understands perfectly well that if she's faced with him in the arena, that fear is not only a reasonable emotion to have, it may very well be the only one she will have. But, here, during this setting, after speaking- if only briefly with Locust. He doesn't strike her as bloodthirsty.

Kind of like Calder, she thinks.

And with that out of the way, she allows herself to smile, happy for Locust, as he received such a wonderful reception.

"Next, we have Hazel Redford, from District 7, please welcome her to the stage," Augustus says.

On the prompt, Hazel walks out onto the stage, her hands nervously shake, so to alleviate that she decides to hold onto her dress, it helps somewhat as she walks all the way to the chair.

She plops down quickly, only then realizing Augustus' outstretched hand.

The audience chuckle and Hazel's face goes as brightly as her hair.

"Oh, I- uhm, I'm sorry! Sorry," she apologies, grabbing his hand with both of hers, shaking it profusely.

Augustus makes a show of having his arm swing a bit. Hazel eventually lets him go after a few more, quick stringed apologies. He massages his shoulder as he looks at her.

"My, you're quite strong, Hazel, I'm going to be sore tomorrow," He teases, going through the motions of rolling his shoulder.

Hazel giggles at his antics and smiles. She smooths her dress as she straightens her posture.

"Tell me, Hazel, what's one thing, you've seen in the Capitol that has drawn your attention," Augustus asks, leaning forward.

"Oh, the buildings. They're so big and compact compared to home," Hazel answers instantly.

"That's right, District 7 is mostly rural. On the topic of home though, tell me a bit about your family,"

Hazel perks at the question, "Well, there's my big brother, Oakley, he's 19. And my mom and dad, I love them so much! My da-… how did you know I had a family?"

"Pardon? What do you mean?" Augustus asks in a confused tone.

"Oh, uh, well, District 7 does have quite a lot of orphans, in fact, roughly around 8% of children between the ages of 12-18 are orphans, that's almost 1 in every 13 children."

Augustus raises his eyebrows in surprise, "My, you're very knowledgeable, but that sounds like difficult information to acquire, how do you know that?"

"My mom works for the mayor, so sometimes I'd sneak glances at the census," Hazel admits sheepishly.

The audience doesn't seem that bothered by it, neither does Augustus who chuckles in response.

"Haha, well, to answer your question young lady, what kind of interviewer would I be if I didn't know who I was interviewing?"

Hazel pales, worrying she may have offended him, "o-oh, I'm sorry, I didn't mea-"

"It's quite alright, my dear. Now, I believe you were talking about your family?"

"R-right. I was talking about my dad. Uhm, well, he's sick, so he can't work too often. Oakley helps as much as he can back home, he works long hours. I, well, my parents wanted me to stay in school and learn as much as I can."

"I see, and your father, is his health improving?"

"No. He has cancer, so the treatments our family can afford only slows the process, but not eliminate it. B-but, if I win, I could cover the fees for the treatments in one go," Hazel explains.

Augustus nods, "that's correct, victors gain monetary rewards for winning as well as a right to live in the Victor's Village. I wish you the best of luck my dear."

Hazel nods her head in response. She chews on the side of her tongue nervously, her statement starting to sink in. If she wins, if she wins, she can help her dad. That's true, that's something she probably always knew but didn't really register.

Doing so, however, makes her painfully aware of the situation, the reality of it. To win, she needs to kill. She doubts she could like Locust did. She doubts she can even keep herself safe as Newt does. If she wins, the innocuous statement is so detached of reality, that now she's aware of it, she can't help but start to feel the prickle in her eyes, the tears threatening to spill.

* * *

_POV – Nylon Hemmings_

_6:58PM_

Nylon reaches into his pocket, his hand caressing the vial. Just making sure it's there, happy, eager even to have pulled it off. It took both days of training, just lingering, loitering near the bug station.

He noticed the patterns, the expert at the station was so easily distracted, very eager to answer questions. Nylon can see why too, it's not a very attractive station to involve oneself in, who wants to learn about poisonous- no, sorry, venomous bugs that could possibly kill oneself?

Just avoid them outright! That's what Velvet said. The thought makes him snicker, she always jokes that he's never serious, not taking the games seriously.

He can totally see where she's coming from, everyone has their ways of coping though. His is humour. His is to put himself down, expect the worst and be grateful when it doesn't come to be.

But he digresses, he's taking these games as seriously as the next guy. He knows the stacks and he's willing to gamble it all to pull it off. Swiping the bug, then stealing knives from the kitchen on his floor, then procuring vials and syringes from the water purification station, it all leads to this wonderful masterpiece.

His final prank.

One he fully intends to make use of in the arena. A poison to coat his weapon with.

Not one to express hubris, but getting this poison was simply ingenious! It wasn't too hard either. He could find goggles, and plastic gloves too, just in the bathroom. He wasn't in any real danger. the bug is heavily sedated anyway, according to the expert.

Meticulous planning helped him pull it off, and his years of pranks and traps gave him a steady enough hand to go for the venom sac. From there, it really was just simply using the syringe to extract the venom and put it in the vial.

It puts a wide smile on his face. His allies can make use of this for sure, Heck, Harvest could tip the arrows into the venom, off people easily. This changes everything, this will absolutely give his alliance the edge to pull through, to get far.

"You can start praising me whenever you know," Nylon teases, wiggling his eyebrows at his district partner.

She swats his forehead, "yeah, yeah. You… I didn't expect you to do that."

"Yeah? Sleeping on me, my dear ally?" Nylon says, feigning fake pain, a hand gripping his chest.

"Nylon you might not want to wrinkle your suit before the interview," Sela chimes in from the back.

This prompts the boy from 8 to smooth out his jacket. She raises a good point, he thanks her for it with a quick nod.

"Everyone, please welcome Nylon Hemmings to the stage. From District 8!"

"That's my cue, wish me luck," Nylon says in a singsong voice, skipping towards the stage.

Nylon shakes the interviewer's hand with gusto before taking a seat on the chair, mirroring Augustus's relaxed posture.

"Nylon, I-"

Nylon raises a finger, and closes his eyes, he takes on a mock elderly tone, "I'm sorry, my clairvoyance is tingling, please, I believe you were going to ask me about the Capitol, correct?"

"Haha, is my routine so mundane?" Augustus laughs, the crowd following suit.

"You could make watching paint dry entertaining! Nope, maybe predictable though," Nylon concedes with a shrug.

"I'll take the compliment then, and the feedback, but yes, please, how has your Capitol experience been so far?"

"A literal nightmare!" He says loudly.

Augustus blinks, the crowd blinks, Nylon blinks, before he breaks into rambunctious laughter.

"I'm joking, the Capitol a nightmare, what would that make 8, am I right? No, this place is amazing! The food, the rooms, the bed! Any chance you'll let me stay?"

Augustus breaks into laughter himself, "You had all of us going there for a second, Nylon."

"Haha, my apologies. I was testing the waters, I've got a rotten sense of humour," he explains.

"A bit of a risk-taker, are you?"

"You haven't the slightest idea," Nylon says, holding back a snicker.

"I hope to get some light shed on that then, but first, tell me, what did you show the gamemakers to score a 5?"

"Ah, well, before I answer that, I should let you all know I'm quite a notorious prankster back home, the best in District 8, self-proclaimed of course."

Augustus chuckles before waving Nylon to continue, "go on, you have our attention."

"I'm good at making elaborate pranks, I just showed how well my skills can transition from pranks to traps. Not very impressive, I know, but it's average, and average is good enough for me."

"Well, a 5 is certainly nothing to sneeze at. Although, you've piqued my curiosity, could you tell us about some of you pranks, perhaps your most favourite?"

"Hmm, I don't know, I'd be outing myself as the culprit if I did…" Nylon says, feigning to be deep in thought, a hand going to his chin.

"Come now, I think everyone here is dying to know."

"Would you look at that, you talked me into it!" Nylon says, his hands going into the air in a sign of surrender.

"Okay, my favourite prank definitely is the time I spiked the peacekeepers coffee with laxatives, man that was a riot! Almost caused one too," Nylon says easily, cackling at the idea.

"Oh, how did you manage that?"

"See, sneaking to the barracks is just way too hard as a solo job, so what I did was focus the middleman. All coffee needs its beans, lace that, and voila. They'll be quite literally shitting themselves trying to find the culprit, fufuhahaha," Nylon finishes, laughing as he falls back into his seat.

The crowd offers mixed signals, some laughing, others not particularly pleased, but Nylon doesn't care. He's been dying to reveal himself for months now.

And, now that there's a chance he might end up literally dying, he sees absolutely nothing to lose, convict a dead man? Not flipping likely! What a horrible day it was to wear white, shame that's all their uniform was!

"A rather clever approach, you show a calculative mind for this I believe, would you agree?"

"I'd hope so. I could also just be riding a tsunami-like wave of good luck though, either or works honestly," Nylon shrugs off, wiping tears from his eye.

"Well, in that case, let's hope you can keep riding this wave of good fortune," Augustus says.

"Exactly, it's either sink or swim, I don't have any intentions of drowning though," Nylon finishes with a confident grin.

* * *

**AN: Hello, sorry for the delay. This took a while to finish, I got super busy over this month. Plus, so much has been going on! Like what the heck, this world's gotta chill.**

**Anyways, sorry to spring this on you, but I think I'll be doing one more chapter before the actual Hunger Games, a transition chapter of sorts, it's going to be very small though, and featuring my incognito-not-exactly-real subplot. It'll be a small chapter mostly for pacing, as it didn't feel right to put it at the end of this already large chapter, but at the same time, I wouldn't want to put it with the bloodbath. I hope you all understand! I hope to get back into the groove of things!**

**On another note, I had guys go first instead of girls, as to why, no idea, I think it just made my chapter ideas move more smoothly. I hope you all are okay with that! XD.  
**

**Thank-you to Paradigm of Writing, and I believe thorne98 for bringing this up. Below, I'll have all the listed alliances, and possible alliances below, for simplicity and organizational sake. Thanks so much you guys! **

**The Alliances:**

*** those with asterisks aren't set- in stone alliances but have been hinted at.**

**Career Pack - Mischa, Remy, Kyra, Emerald, Locust.  
**

**Alliance 1* - Calder, Newt, Vortex, Hazel, Cooper**

**Alliance 2 - Velvet, Nylon, Harvest, Sela**

**Alliance 3* - Cyrus, Judah**

**Alliance 4 - Harrison, Adalyn**

**Solos: Midnight, Magnus, Tesla, Corolla, Destry, Mila**


	21. The Calm

_POV – President Nova_

_8:47AM, 4 hours and 13 minutes before the 99__th__ Hunger Games begin…_

President Nova drums his fingers across his mahogany desk, bags under his eyes. Sleep has been elusive the last few days, as it usually always is during this time.

The Hunger Games simply carry this much political weight, it really grates on his nerves and psyche. But, what kind of president would he be if he allowed the Games of all things to deteriorate his ability to function?

He grabs for his mug, and slips the smooth aromatic tea, is soothes his soul as he places it back onto the desk. He goes back to looking over some papers. Political spats between some of the families. How utterly pathetic, he thinks.

The doors to his office open abruptly, prompting Aquarion to look up from the papers in his hand, an unamused expression on his face.

In marches, a young man dressed in all black, his raven hair slicked back, and beard neatly trimmed.

"Scorpius, to what do I owe the pleasure?"

The man stands a little straighter when addressed by name, but only then does he take a real moment to look at the president, "Is now not a good time?"

The president sighs and places the papers messily back onto his desk, just how he found them.

"You've gained my attention, what is it."

"I've come with the same proposition as last time. I got data to go with it, here, the report," Scorpius says eagerly walking up and handing him a binder.

Aquarion doesn't break eye contact as he grabs the binder, and promptly drops it onto his desk like all other papers and documentations, it makes a resounding slam in the silence of the office.

"Wha-"

"You clearly didn't pay attention. I'm disappointed in you," the president chides, shaking his head.

"You said to get data, that my idea holds merit, you know we need this, D6 is growing into a security risk."

"Be that as it may, I said to follow the intended channels."

"Don't be an idiot, that can take months, we should push this out for the Quarter Quell at least, think about it," Scorpius explains exasperatedly.

Aquarion rises from his chair, leveling his gaze with Scorpius.

"My patience runs thin, watch your tone with me. I'm the only one thinking about it, you imbecile. What would it look like to my political adversaries if I approved a project given to me by a fellow Nova?"

"That the Nova family truly resides on top, that we're the ones ushering Panem fo-"

"Nepotism, favouritism or a scandal. Take your pick. You'll take it through the proper channels, that's all I have to say on the matter," Aquarion interrupts derisively.

"You're being hypocritical and petty. Or are you really this short-sighted?" Scorpius lashes, throwing his hands around in frustration.

"Don't test me Scorpius, just because we share the same blood does not mean I'd shy away from spilling it," Aquarion says with finality, his brows narrowing.

Scorpius hesitates, bristling at the remark, but at the same time clearly showing signs of heeding the warning. Good, Aquarion thinks, if he were stupid enough not to, then Aquarion would not have any qualms with ordering the execution this instance, a Nova like that would reflect poorly on the family as a whole.

"I'm your president before I am your cousin, you best remember that. Get out of my office," Aquarion says, falling back into his chair and picking up some of his papers.

He hears some marching, and ultimately then the doors to his office slamming shut. What a bratty child. Given too much authority too soon, Aquarion laments, nepotism truly did play a role in this.

Scorpius' idea, Project D14 for simplicity's sake, isn't a bad one. D6 is suffering from overpopulation and crime, trimming the numbers would make it considerably easier for the peacekeepers to do their namesake and keep the peace.

Additionally, the idea of moving those from 5 and 3, to bolster this new district as a research hub for the Capitol also holds merit. Especially considering Project D14 also will move some families from 1 and 2 to create the new district with strong Capitol affiliations.

If a future war- future rebellion breaks out, the Capitol will have strong loyal districts in their prominent three of 1,2 and 14 respectively.

But with its assets, comes it's liabilities.

The logistics involved for such a massive colonizing effort will be tremendous and given the Capitol's annual event of the Hunger Games, it makes it a difficult endeavour to execute. When will the Capitol have the available manpower? That's the main concern with the idea.

All of this movement can also create an opening for a political play, Aquarion just knows it. With his attention between the Games and Project D14, his watchful guard will be spread thin. Albeit, it's still a decent project, and will also placate any worries of a massive insurgence in 6. He'd approve the project once it gets to him, why can't his imbecilic cousin see that?

Does he not understand the intricacies of politics?

The Council will see the project approved in time, but to bypass them all together would be mistake birthed from arrogance. Sure, as President he very well could ignore the Council. But the message it sends, the nepotism it shows, it would be a stain on the Nova reputation, something his family spent generations building.

Not to mention if he so blatantly disregards what the Council says, they very well could find someone to replace him. His rise to presidency was as much as political genius as it was a political necessity.

His predecessor was old and growing senile, far too engrossed in his own delusions, disregarding the Council as nothing more than glorified secretaries. It was only a matter of time really. Aquarion was simply the first to notice it. The Council consists of the oldest noble families of the Capitol. They won't go unnoticed and certainly won't go ignored.

Knocks on his door snap Aquarion from his musings. He momentarily falters, trying to recall who or what the purpose could be, but ultimately decides that it would be best to show he's prepared regardless.

"Enter," He calls, reaching for another document.

He glances up from the paper to see his Head Gamemaker enter, a tablet, and folder in hand. That's all he needs to spark his memory, a status report. He may be President, but he used to be a gamemaker first, naturally, he likes to be kept up to date with the arena.

"You have a report for me?"

"That's correct Mister President," she answers giving the folder to his outstretched hand.

Her eyes linger on the binder before she finally takes a step back. Aquarion narrows his gaze, but ultimately starts to flip through the folder anyways.

"Everything's looking in order. Good, well-done gamemaker," he says.

"Helen Levenezque."

Aquarion peels his eyes from the documents to his gamemaker, quirking an eyebrow ever so slightly, "what?"

"My name President Nova, it's Helen Levenezque," The woman explains as she readjusts her glasses.

Aquarion nods slowly, not entirely sure why she has a sudden fixation on it, but ultimately shrugs, "right, of course, Levenezque. Thank you for your report, you may leave now."

She bows slightly before doing as he requests. The sound of her heels echoes well beyond leaving his office.

Aquarion wonders sometimes where his trepidation regarding her came from. A president can only be elected from the Council's families. The Levenezque family is not apart of the Council for one, and even if they were, they'd be so insignificant and small that they couldn't muster the leverage to even attempt a political play on the presidency.

That, however, does make Aquarion curious. For he did not gain presidency through complacency and dumb luck. She's attempting something, must be. What is she after? What is her goal? Is she backed by the Snow family? For what purpose? Questions without answers, she holds them close to her chest. Regardless, one thing remains certain. Presidency is simply beyond her reach.

Inspired by Snow or not, it won't really matter if she isn't one.

* * *

_POV – Helen Levenezque _

_12:43PM, 17 minutes before the 99__th__ Hunger Games begin…_

Helen watches her tablet as the outline of Mila Carway's portrait lights up with a green hue, signaling all tributes have officially been given their trackers. Said trackers also double as scanners, getting vitals from their respective tribute. When one dies, Helen will know, and the cannon will fire.

In less than 30 minutes, Helen will be running her first Hunger Games as Head Gamemaker. She half expected to feel more nervous. This is supposed to be a momentous occasion for her, and plenty is at stake.

Yet, she feels at peace, tranquil even. She's been waiting for this moment, and yet, she can't bring herself to feel excited either.

Just, calm.

Helen turns and looks over to Osmon's station. It's empty, as she knew it would be. He's still in 4, delivering the envelope to the headmaster of Atlantis Academy. More than willing to miss the beginning of the games for her sake.

Well, it's as much her sake as it's his. Still, she's grateful all the same. It also helps explain her calmness. The two of them are apart of something bigger, how can she become excited or nervous for what is essentially a steppingstone towards her goal? That's all this is, becoming Head Gamemaker, is just a steppingstone.

"Gamemaker Volthound, an update on the tributes," Helen calls, promptly hushing the buzzing chatter in the control room.

"Vitals read healthy, some heart rates a bit higher than baseline. Tributes are four minutes from the arena. The craft is going under now," She drones out.

Helen nods, "Thank-you. Gamemaker Januzaj, update on the arena barrier."

"Stable and holding. It will be ready to move when needed though."

"Excellent. Gamemaker Barns, update on your muttations."

"In place and dormant. Arbol will wake during events or if attacked, Piscis activate on proximity. No complications in either," comes his response.

"Thank you, may I have your attention please?" Helen asks, placing her tablet down.

Her fellow gamemakers pause tensely and give her their undivided attention, some confused, some even nervous. She pauses momentarily for the latter. That makes sense, just because she doesn't feel nervous, does not mean her staff will feel the same.

Some of these gamemakers came from the 98th Hunger Games. But, additions like Volthound and Barns, even Osmon more or less alters the chemistry and team dynamic. Team synergy starts from scratch whenever a new Head Gamemaker is employed. With that comes a level of uncertainty.

It's her duty to placate worries and keep morale high, going into the Hunger Games. Helen clears her throat as she walks to the center of the control room.

"I want to begin with addressing you all with a thank-you. I could not have had this arena completed if it were not for every single gamemakers' contribution, and for that, I am incredibly grateful. All of your efforts cannot be understated, and you should be incredibly proud of what you've managed to achieve. That being said, let us not grow complacent. Rather, remain diligent in adhering to our duties and tasks. I hope this to be the start of a long tenure of successes, and I'm thoroughly pleased to have you all as my staff for it."

The gamemakers politely clap as Helen smoothly makes her way back to the Head Gamemaker station, her station. A hologram materializes, portraying the entirety of her arena before her. Well, it's as much her arena as those who helped contribute to it. Her vision perhaps, would be a more accurate claim. A simple one really, one that shifts into a new form, an evolution. Symbolic as it is fitting. A change in the Games.

She drums her fingers across her stainless steel desk as she stares at the hologram. She refines a few sand particles here, foliage there, at this point she's being pedantic with her modifications.

"Ma'am, the tributes have been escorted to their waiting rooms."

Helen nods in acknowledgment as she looks down at her tablet's clock. Five minutes remain. Five minutes before the Games begin. She couldn't be calmer.

* * *

**AN: Okay, should have gotten this out yesterday, but got delayed. Small transition chapter that hints more at the political climate in the Capitol. It's here for pacing, I swear! Ahem, yeah. I'm working on the Bloodbath next! Super excited! Remember, if you haven't already received my pm,(or reviewed the story recently), this chapter is your last chance for me to know you're reading! That's all, until next time!  
**

**Oh, and I'm no longer doing first-person pov for President Nova. I'm sticking to whatever this person tense is! :p. Okay, now for real, until next time! **


	22. The Bloodbath

**AN: This chapter took so long to write and get out, but I finally did it, and I'm terribly sorry for the delay! I mostly avoided PM's and just hunkered down and tried to get this out. I spent way longer than I wanted to, so as a result I ended up wanting to make sure the quality wasn't disappointing. The Bloodbath is super important to me, and I didn't want my writing to falter, but killing, death is new for me to write, so I stressed out a lot on the quality. I re-wrote almost every POV entirely twice. And each pov has gone through multiple edits beyond that. It's not an exaggeration at all to say I spent a month writing this. As I feel my writing alters throughout the chapter to reflect that. **

**Okay, moving away from that, so honestly, I used a lot of music when writing this. But I have to give thanks, to Paradigm of Writing for showing me Berlin by the Piano Guys as I think it's wonderfully tense. I would never have heard of it unless he pointed it out to me, so thanks so much! I think you all should listen to something when reading this! I recommend Berlin, from 2 minutes on and forth, having that on repeat. As of late though, I've been listening to The Knight of Rebellion, an OST for Fate/Apocrypha. Honestly, both I think are good to listen to when reading! But again, those are just suggestions. I want to thank everyone for making it this far with me, and putting up with my random periods of inactivity! Having you all here reading has been a wonderful time, and I'm super eager to make it this far into the story! I have a lot in store, and I'm super excited to get it all out in due time! On a side note, I know this is super late, but congratulations to thorne98 for beating me to the Bloodbath! You've bested me in updating speed, my fellow writer!**

**Disclaimer: violent character death, please be advised! I doubt I'm all that good at making it gross or vivid, but I just want people to be aware!**

* * *

_POV – All_

_12:58PM _

The sun shines brightly in the cloudless sky, reflecting off the metallic hull of the cornucopia, giving it a sheen. Swords, axes, and spears are neatly placed on a few racks, inside the cornucopia and a few yards out of it. A rapier leans against the inside of the structure, while an imposing battle axe stands on the opposite end.

Other small weapons lay scattered near the opening of the metallic structure. Crates and packs find themselves slightly further away, they're placecd in a manner where they funnel towards the opening of the cornucopia. Even further, yards away, small pouches, bags, sheets of plastic, and other items lay sprinkled across the grassy smooth field.

Even further down said field lies empty circular pedestals positioned in a semi-circle. They stand a few inches elevated off the grass, with small lumps around the platform. They face the cornucopia's opening. The pedestals stand roughly 15 feet apart from the other, like sore blemishes on the neatly trimmed field.

And finally, beyond that are trees, lining around the entire opening, thick with foliage and underbrush, masking the arena beyond the setting for the bloodbath. The pedestal's platform soundlessly parts down the middle, unsealing itself and revealing a circular opening.

24 tributes slowly rise from the ground. Some smug, others confident, some nervous, and some resigned. The majority, however, take a moment to glance around their surroundings, the tributes, treeline, and cornucopia. Some tributes squint, others raise their arms, shielding their face as the presence of the blinding sun immediately casts upon them. There's a pregnant pause, a chilling lull as if the gamemakers themselves wait for the tributes to accustom to the sunlight.

After a few moments, in front and slightly above said cornucopia, a golden circle starts to materialize like cascading golden ichor. The wave starts from the top before falling to the bottom. With the circle complete, the interior starts to take shape, like a flower blooming, the 60 forms at the center before spreading outwards.

_60_

_59_

_58_

Each tick of the timer comes with a boom, a trepidation, a sense of foreboding. Nylon clenches his fists, his legs fidgeting from on top of his platform. One hand dig into his pants, procuring a vial. He looks at the white translucent liquid for a second before carefully slipping it into his pocket. His resolve hardens, as his strategy echoes throughout his head. Get goods, and then get out. Simple really, he just needs to survive the chaos, quite literally.

For once, he doesn't smile.

_57_

_56_

_55_

Mischa closes her eyes, letting the systemic drums of the counter calm her nerves. She's already in a runner stance, she's prepared, and has resolved herself for the Games. A Morrigan Sister, although a title she finds thrown at her mockingly, is still one she intends to carry with pride.

The image of one is that of beauty, people would argue that's all it is. By the end of today, she'll have changed that perception.

_54_

_53_

Harrison has never been more conflicted, more distraught by the circumstances thrust upon him. His precious diplomacy, the very crutch he uses to stabilize himself has been stripped away, especially during the most daunting and bloodiest part of the games. If he wants to survive, talking will not be the way to do so.

If he's to return home, he's to forsake his values, the very principles he's rebuilt himself on. That being said, he's destined for greatness, Dying here is unacceptable. That, unfortunately, means he must resolve himself to climb on the corpses of those he'll leave behind.

_52_

_51_

_50_

Baxton's words resonate with Cooper still. Family is a strong motivator. It can take him all the way. He holds onto that conversation like a lifeline. His hands shake, he can't conceal the nervous ticks, his throat feels dry too. He looks at the trees, and for some reason, it brings him back to the conversation he had with his friends.

Felino said the trees moved back then, didn't he? When he snuck out of the district by that hole. How the peacekeepers were distracted by it, fighting it even. It makes the breeze and the swaying branches all the more imposing, Cooper feels.

_49_

_48_

He is calm and collected, outwardly at least. Internally, he's scared, rightfully so, Harvest believes. He's standing on an arena pedestal, a similar one to that of his sister. Gwenith survived the bloodbath, she slipped away after snagging a pouch.

She didn't have a weapon to defend herself when the mutt fell upon her. He won't go unarmed into these games. His eyes fix themselves onto the bow and quiver, leaning against one of the crates. He takes a deep breath, preparing himself.

_47_

_46_

_45_

She raises her arms, stretching her back before she starts to bounce on her feet. Nervous energy she concludes. Emerald scans the weapons and realizes she can't spot any sets of throwing knives from here. It momentarily sends a spike of worry and panic through her.

She bites down on her tongue, effectively erasing her fear. Hesitation and nerves will get her killed. She can adapt, she has to. She sees some normal daggers laying around. Those will be more than enough, she thinks resolutely.

_44_

_43_

_42_

Sela looks for her allies, seeing Harvest five pedestals to her right, Nylon two more beyond that. It takes her a moment to find Velvet, who's almost directly across from her. Sela tenses nervously seeing the boy from 1 on the pedestal beside her.

Then again, she has her own concerns to be worrying about, her gaze turning to face the bald-headed tribute from 3. She holds her hands together, squeezing the nervous tremors away. She takes a deep breath and lowers herself in a sprinters form. Whatever happens, she and Harvest need to survive this bloodbath. Whatever it takes, District 9 needs a victor.

_41_

_40_

_39_

_38_

In and out, snatch the purple bag just a few meters away, she just needs to reach for it and head towards the woods. Everything else is secondary, she needs to keep herself safe, avoid conflict, and stay alert and on her toes.

"Don't stop, never stop," Corolla murmurs to herself, the mantra she abides by.

Metaphorical, to remain tenacious when in the face of danger, But, in this instance, it holds literal meaning she intends to fulfill the moment she breaks through those trees.

_37_

_36_

_35_

Mila's pincered by the boys in the outlier alliance. The tanned tall boy from 9 to her left and the lanky pale one from 8 to her right. Thankfully, she never intended to participate in this bloodbath, she'll dip into the treeline and stalk tributes who manage to escape.

She just needs to pick the right one to follow and swipe their goods when they less expect it. If that fails, she feels confident enough in her own skills to manage in a forest. Starvation and trees come naturally to a girl from 12, she thinks ruefully.

_34_

_33_

A cloudless sky, Telsa wonders if it's by design, or if what she's seeing really is the actual sky. Without gamemaker influence, the grass too, and the trees, how much has been modified or altered to craft the perfect arena? She supposes, the question comes down to being, how meticulous are the gamemakers?

Pointless thoughts, she knows that, but they're very nice distractions. She doesn't want to think of the Hunger Games. Why couldn't they be a competitive concert competition like her imagination once pictured them to be?

_32_

_31_

_30_

Cecropia, Kapok, Rubber, weird assortment of trees lines the clearing, Hazel notices. All of them are similarly found in tropical climates though, something she becomes very aware of given the humidity of the arena. The air feels heavy, and her clothes stick to her uncomfortably.

Hazel is scared, and she worries fear will paralyze her actions. She's shaking uncontrollably, and her leg is bouncing helplessly on the pedestal. Her saving grace, however, is that she has allies, she needs to find them, and help them get supplies. Thankfully, Vortex and Calder stand beside each other, so she can try to get a bag before heading towards them.

_29_

_28_

_27_

Adalyn promised to keep her temper in check, not to lash out at her ally. Only her ally though, everyone else isn't exempt from her wrath. These people, these equally as misfortunate people don't really deserve to receive unwarranted anger and frustrations from some bitter girl from 11.

But she needs to channel this anger, this resentment, this bitterness if she wants any chance of leaving this arena alive. She can't let it stew, she needs to unleash it and fight for every inch. Adalyn furrows her brows and clenches her fists, that's exactly what she plans to do.

_26_

_25_

_24_

He takes a steadying breathe, instantly regretting the action as his chest constricts painfully. As if his lungs are barbed and bleeding, the pain surges in waves. He bites down on his tongue, refusing to let any sign of pain show, only a minor wince displaying his internal turmoil.

He's not suited for this, not suited to run in there and gather supplies while simultaneously being attentive of others. Judah knows this, but he also knows that his ally will only work with him if he shows concrete contributions.

He smiles ruefully. Damned if he does, damned if he doesn't. If damnation awaits him regardless, then he truly lacks any reason for hesitance. Judah will push through the blistering pain.

_23_

_22_

_21_

Vortex is panicking on his pedestal, less than a minute and he's going to participate in a free-for-all fight to the death. He really wants to flee, to run away from the cornucopia but Newt insisted they get some supplies. It's either work with an ally or no one at all.

Icarus said to make strong allies too, Calder and Newt would be it, and both are ready to dive headlong into the bloodbath. Vortex chews on his lower lip, he needs to be ready too.

_20_

_19_

_18_

To Kyra's right stands Mischa Morrigan, and her left Emerald Locke. It's certainly favourable circumstances. Especially since the three of them are mostly in a centralized position, it'll make getting to their weapons easier.

Emerald is more supportive, Remy is right about that, so Kyra will mostly stick with Mischa. The two of them will unlikely face a tribute they can't handle, so It works out to be an ideal position. Her concerns don't lie with the bloodbath itself, but the actions after it. Her time to decide is running thin, the dwindling countdown only solidifying the notion.

_16_

_15_

Locust looks down the lines of tributes. To his right is the petite form of the girl from 3. The bloodbath, as he labelled. Seeing her score compared to the others, seeing her now, he stays firm with his assessment.

He looks to his left and pauses, almost surprised by how fortunate he is. The boy from 4, Calder, stands on the pedestal beside him. One of the tributes who scored a 7. One of the tributes he promised to kill.

His gaze narrows as he shifts his stance away from the cornucopia.

_14_

_13_

_12_

Newt rubs his hands together as he bounces on the balls of his feet. He's anxious, but, given that he's at the end of the long line of tributes, he only has to worry about those to his right. The girl from 11 followed by Cyrus just a pedestal after.

He scored roughly as well as both of them, so he's not intimated by them. He doesn't plan to fight anyways, just grab a bag and find his allies. Composure is paramount in this kind of environment, so he'll be damned if he cracks now.

_11_

_10_

_9_

The probability of accidental death during a chaotic environment like the bloodbath is tremendously higher than if he were to fight in an isolated setting. As such, Magnus does not feel it prudent, nor even necessary to risk himself for supplies.

He'll stay hidden and follow the person who picks up his bow. He'll neutralize them when the opportunity presents itself. It's all about minimizing unknown variables. The Games may be unpredictable, but, Magnus has every intention of taking this as methodically as he does anything else.

_8_

_7_

_6_

She hops from foot to foot as she shakes her arms. She takes a steadying breath, a calming one, standing beside Midnight Tyrian does that to her. A cornered career is what he is, and that makes him incredibly dangerous.

Velvet's fast, but she' isn't stupid. Going for a bag might work, but anything further is just going to be a death trap for her. Locust and the boy from 4, Calder are nearby too. She's in the thick of things.

_5_

Destry is just thrilled to be here, standing on this very platform, in these very games, what a dream come true. The cherry on top has to be the fact Remy fucking Cartwright is to her left. These gamemakers really know how to make a girl feel special.

Fuck going into the cornucopia, she'll get massacred, literally ripped to ribbons by a crazy career. Nope, nope to the whole damn situation. When that countdown hits zero, she's getting the living hell out of here.

_4_

He cracks his neck as he stands confidently on his pedestal. These are his Games. Remy intends to give a show. He looks for Midnight, and frowns when he spots him nearly on the opposite side of the clearing.

Now he's pressed for options, hunt him down, which although is what he wants, he realizes is not ideal. Or go for kills. He needs those if he wants to reach his goal, and he needs to secure the supplies for his alliance too.

With a click of his tongue, he decides. Midnight lives temporarily, but he's the first thing the pack hunts when Remy's done with this bloodbath.

_3_

Remy would have to be an utter idiot to target him during this bloodbath. Maybe it could be justified if Midnight stood a little closer. But, it's just such an asinine decision. The two meet gazes, and Midnight can't help but raise his chin and smirk, he makes sure to wave as Remy glares.

The wave morphs into a middle finger as Midnight's smirk turns sadistic.

_2_

Calder remains unsure of himself, even up to the final seconds of the countdown. Maurea told him to make allies, but are they, or is he simply projecting his sister onto these kids? Is this clouding his judgement? Should he abandon them? Or is that the same as killing them himself?

He shakes his head, at this point its just worthless musings. Ideally, he'd like to flee the cornucopia and live off the land. But now he'll try to keep his allies safe.

_1_

Her gaze zeroes in on some of the spears and bags. She'll gather the supplies and linger a bit for Judah. Not exactly her greatest plan, but Cyrus feels as if over planning this can be as disastrous as not planning at all.

She's confident in her abilities, she just needs to trust herself and her instincts. They tell her to avoid Magnus and the careers, but anyone else. She takes a steady breath before lowering her center of gravity. If they attack her, she will retaliate.

_0_

* * *

_POV – Locust Sequoia _

_1:00PM _

The countdown reaches zero, and a gong sounds, signalling the beginning of the 99th Annual Hunger Games.

Locust doesn't waste time, leaping off his pedestal and dashing towards his intended target. From his peripheral, he can see the majority of the other tributes heading to the cornucopia. It'll put him at a disadvantage, but he decides to rely on his allies for this segment.

He's only a few feet away from Calder when the boy notices him. The redheaded tribute from 4 only has time to throw his arms up in a weak guard before Locust tackles him to the ground.

He hears Calder groan as the wind is knocked out of his lungs. Locust lands hard too onto the grass and rolls a bit before getting to his feet. He looks across from him, and sees Calder already trying to crawl run away.

Locust shuts that idea down as he grips the boy's leg and pulls the tribute back to the ground. He drags Calder towards himself.

The boy from 4 turns to face upwards and tosses a punch. Locust weaves his head to the side. The end of the knuckles just slightly grazes his cheek. Locust doesn't even flinch as he retaliates with a punch of his own.

Calder raises his arms, covering his face and takes the blow to his forearms. Locust however remains unrelenting, slowly putting his own weight on top of the tribute from 4.

Firmly stuck, all Calder can do is keep his arms up as Locust rains blow after blow. The tribute tries another weak jab, but Locust catches it easily enough.

He yanks the arm to the side and punches Calder's exposed chest. His eyes bulge as spittle escapes his lips, he's coughs violently, as his breaths come in ragged intervals.

Locust presses his advantage, this time throwing a jab into Calder's face.

It breaks through the flimsy one-handed guard easily. His nose shatters in a burst of blood, and Calder screams out in pain.

Locust own knuckles feel raw. So, he opts instead to let go of his grip on Calder's arm and instead moves his hands around the boy's neck.

Locust starts to squeeze the life out of him. Calder quickly snaps from his daze as his eyes go wide in shock. He tries scratching at the hands around his neck, trying to peel them off him. Locust however remains firm.

Noticing it to be futile, Calder changes approaches, instead he goes for Locust face with jabs and scratches. They're weak, and only getting weaker. Calder's eyes quiver, and quickly lose focus. The blood from his nose starts to trickle down into his mouth and stain his teeth red.

Calder starts to change colour, and his hands can barely reach Locust's face. Not that it prevents the tribute from trying.

Locust squeezes down even harder, for good measure now that most of the struggling has subsided. He keeps his hands tightly around the tribute's neck even seconds after Calder stares lifelessly up at him.

* * *

_POV – Remy Cartwright_

_1:00PM _

He's one of the first to reach the cornucopia and quickly pushes that advantage. He heads inside the structure and picks out a few daggers before dashing right back out.

He doesn't spot Midnight instantly, and thus dismisses the boy from 1 outright, and instead looks towards the others in his vicinity. He zeroes in on the closest, jumping over a crate before tossing one of his knives.

It digs into the distracted tribute's shoulder causing him to slip and stumble to the ground in a shout of pain. Remy grimaces, disappointed he missed a killing blow, but decides this will at least create a good show for the Capitol.

The boy, from 8, he believes starts to backpedal away, even using his bleeding arm to do it. His eyes are wide in panic and his mouth grits in pain. Yet he still remains focused enough to attempt to escape the threat.

Remy applauds him for it.

"W-wait, go away, leave!" He shouts.

Remy shakes his head and shrugs whimsically, "can't do that, you know the drill."

"Fuck yourself!"

The humour washes from Remy's face. He takes a quick second to check his surroundings, making sure no one can get the jump on him.

It's a chaotic scene laid before him. He sees two girls trying to spear each other, Mischa and Kyra fending the weapons, Locust strangling the shit out of some unlucky bastard.

It's hectic. He doesn't catch Midnight's location. Which, of course reminds him of his resolve.

Fast kills, many of them, then find the bastard and make him pay.

"You piece of shit, fuck off, fuck you, fu-" his angry protests die the moment Remy places a boot on his chest.

The Career flips the dagger into a reverse grip, as he lowers himself closer to the frightened tribute. Remy remains quiet and expressionless as he examines the brunet.

"P-please don't," the tribute mumbles softly.

Remy remains frozen for a second.

Only a second before he pushes the tribute down with one hand, and drops the dagger with the other.

Again, and again, and again.

First the neck, but he doesn't give the tribute any time to even register the pain before he rips it out to bring it down again. This time into his face, through his eye. He digs his knife upwards, pulling it out with a crimson coat of blood. It drips onto his tracksuit, but Remy remains undisturbed as he brings it down one final time.

This time he's lazy and imbeds the knife deeply into the tribute's skull. Remy curses, as he tries to pull the knife out. It remains firmly in place. A lost cause, he concludes begrudgingly.

He grabs the knife out of the tribute's arm instead before rising to his feet. His hands have blood on them, his clothes too, he can even feel some on his face. This should spook him, unnerve him even. The blood is heavier than water, and the splatter doesn't run down his face as he'd expect it should.

Besides that stray thought, however, he dismisses any concerns regarding his first kill. All he can really think about is how he's now only 11 more to go. Just 11 kills and Spartacus's legacy will be in shambles.

* * *

_POV – Adalyn Plumm_

_1:00PM_

Adalyn jumps from her pedestal the moment the countdown rings. She beelines towards the cornucopia, much like the other tributes did from the corner of her eye. It's the deadliest race of her life, and she can feel her breath start to strain simply due to how hard she's pushing herself. From her peripheral, she sees the short blonde pull ahead on her right side. It sends a spike of worry and fear coursing through her, especially as she realizes the girl starting to pull ahead.

She kills the nerves brutally and grits her teeth, her brows narrowing as she lunges over some tarp. She wills herself to run faster, push harder. She passes some of the smaller supplies as she continues her mad dash. Those supplies would be useless to her. No, she wants a weapon, she needs a weapon if she wants any chance of surviving.

Adalyn starts to slow down the moment she's feet away from the cornucopia. If she approaches it any quicker, she'll crash into the wall or trip over the crates.

However, in doing so, she becomes hyperaware of the people surrounding her. Again, knowing now that she has this many people, this many threats in her blind spot, in front of her, in her peripheral, knowing that any could legally kill her sends a spike of panic.

She ignores the bags as she heads towards the closest weapon rack.

Adalyn's gaze hardens when she sees the short blonde girl is already there, hastily grabbing a spear. Thankfully, she's preoccupied with that and has her back to Adalyn. Quickly, she realizes this may very well be her only chance, if the blonde gets the chance to turn and get her bearings, Adalyn is as good as dead.

With that the case, there's only one thing Adalyn can do. She flings herself into the girl.

There's a loud grunt as she sends the girl, herself and the rack crashing to the ground. The spears dislodge and roll all over the place as they spill onto the grassy field. Adalyn, prepared for the faceplant, is quick to react. She reaches for the spear closest to her as she starts getting to her feet.

Her eyes widen as she quickly dives to the side, letting the pointed end of a spear pierce nothing but air. Adalyn falls into a side roll before getting onto a knee.

The girl didn't let go of her weapon, Adalyn realizes belatedly. Said girl is also taking the space she managed to make to get to her own feet.

Adalyn curses her luck, and quickly checks behind her before facing the blonde again. Without any other immediate threats flanking her, Adalyn can focus onto the blonde before her.

"Let me go, you're wasting both of our time here," The blonde reasons.

Adalyn can barely hear her through the chaos and the ringing in her ears. The adrenaline of attacking someone is surging through her veins like electricity.

She doesn't respond, instead she grips her spear tightly, solidifying her resolve. She can't leave the girl anyways, turning one's back to a spear is a fast way to get stabbed by it. The girl knows that as well, given she doesn't appear any less ready to fight herself. Whatever they wanted, Adalyn has locked them into this fight.

With a shout, she charges forward. It startles the unexpecting blonde, who blinks stupidly before matching her with a charge of her own.

Adalyn swipes with her spear, much like she used to do back home in the forests of 11 when collecting fruit. The circumstances, however, are very different. Instead of getting the satisfying feeling of connecting with something, she swings through air.

Her dark brown eyes widen, seeing the blonde drop into a power slide isn't even close to what Adalyn expects. But, now overextending, her weapon still recovering from her overcommitment, and the blonde well within her guard, Adalyn becomes incredibly aware of the spear thrusting into her.

She screams as she feels the spear pierce through her baby blue jacket, her undershirt, and finally her flesh. The pointed blade embeds deeply into her stomach, sending spikes of brain-numbing agony throughout her body. The momentum takes her off her feet and she folds under the weight before crashing to the ground unceremoniously.

She bangs her head as she lands, and white spots explode across her vision. The throbbing is nothing compared to what she feels in her stomach. The unbearable pain brings with it a crippling fear. Unlike before, she can't do anything to maintain it. Tears start to build up around her eyes, clouding her vision further.

Said pain doubles in blistering intensity the moment the spear wrenches out of her stomach. She wails, and her ability to hold back tears shatters entirely. She's quickly starting to tire, but, musters the final ounces of her strength to shakily bring her hands to the hole in her stomach.

It hurts to touch, and she can feel her palms coating in blood. She can't see it, not having the strength to even raise her head, but feeling it is a certainty. The thick sticky liquid slowly envelopes her hands, her futile efforts to apply any sort of pressure dissipating as the pain starts to numb. It feels as if her ability to move is seeping away, as if being drained from her.

To some degree that's right, her very life essence is soaking into the grass.

* * *

_POV – Midnight Tyrian _

_1:00PM _

When the countdown hits zero, Midnight doesn't waste any time lunging from his pedestal and breaking into a sprint. The countdown lasted 60 seconds, he managed to map out his desired route in 20. The other 40 was used to scan the tributes in his vicinity.

Locust, Calder and Harrison are the closest threats, thankfully, Midnight's the fastest. He's always been fast, needed to be growing up, speed is all he really had. Intelligence was cultivated, it came after the foundation of his agility was established.

He glides across the field. Since he never intends to go into the cornucopia, he settles for a few daggers laying near the outskirts. He crouches easily and scoops the blades from the hilt before pivoting on the balls of his feet.

He quickly slips one into his pocket as he starts his dash again. He sprints straight towards one of the two bags he plans to pick up before leaving the clearing. In doing so, however, he immediately notices someone already collecting his first bag, the thin tribute from 12, Judah Rockefeller he recalls.

Midnight quickly runs through the information he has on the tribute. Weak, frail, has to- no, must compensate his weaknesses somehow. Through cunning and trickery possibly? in that case, much like how Midnight fights then. He narrows his brows as he dashes towards the tribute.

Exit supplies are essential. Midnight doesn't want to risk his chances by going back into the center of things now that careers are likely armed and tributes are killing one another. Picking up these bags as he leaves is crucial, and fighting tributes for it is entirely reasonable, Midnight concludes.

Instinctively, Judah snaps his gaze from the bag up to Midnight, his eyes going wide in panic. He recovers quickly however and starts running. Midnight pities him, seeing as, despite Judah's best efforts, Midnight still manages to catch up to him easily, as if he's taking a brisk jog.

That's the extent of his pity, as he volunteered for these Hunger Games. Midnight knows the stakes, and he'll be damned if he lets himself be killed due to something as ridiculous as pity. He's a few feet away when he spots the tribute before him tense.

He notices Judah shifting weight to his front leg and quickly ducks under Judah's attempt to swing the bag like a bat. Judah's taken off-balance from his flail, giving Midnight plenty of space to run the dagger across Judah's stomach. The boy from 12 cries out, but manages to jump back, only letting Midnight cut him superficially at best, a shallow cut, he realizes annoyingly.

He needs to make this fast. Midnight reverses his grip on one of the knives, and lightly flicks it in the air. He catches the blade by the tip and eyes Judah critically. Said tribute's grey eyes firmly fix on the dagger.

Midnight smirks, exactly what he wants to see. Superficial or not, the fact he's wounded Judah at all means he's hyper-aware of it, too aware. That kind of fixation won Midnight a tournament, it'll help him kill a tribute.

Midnight sprints forward, startling Judah out of his stupor, the tribute from 12 grips the straps of the bag tightly and glues his gunmetal eyes onto the looming daggers. Midnight smirks, pleased to see events play as planned.

He flicks his wrist tossing one of his knives upwards in a forward motion. It practically hangs in the air, drawing Judah's attention. Midnight ducks low as he dashes towards him, getting entirely out of the tribute's vision.

Judah realizes instantly, his eyes going wide as he his gaze falls back down, without any hesitation he swings the bag at Midnight.

Midnight swiftly ducks under it, before lunging upwards, well inside Judah's personal space. Judah flinches, and thrusts his palm forward, trying to shove Midnight away.

It's a futile effort, as Midnight catches the hand with his own, and runs his dagger across Judah's throat with his other. A crimson smile slowly starts to form across the tribute's neck, his eyes bugging out in shock.

Midnight let's go of Judah's hand, letting the tribute use it to clutch his throat. Instead, Midnight opts to grip his elbow, preventing him from collapsing. It's much easier to strip him of the bag when he's standing. Or at least, that's what he thought. Midnight's surprised to see the death grip Judah has on the bag. It takes more effort than the actual fight to pry his fingers off the strap, wrestling with them for a few seconds. The moment his hand loses it's grip on the bag, it weakly finds it's way around his throat too, in a fruitless effort to prevent himself from spilling all over his ebony black jacket.

Midnight frowns and releases his grip, allowing Judah to fall to the ground. A distance far enough that the chaos around him drowns out the sounds of the tribute's choking. It's a bit sickening, Midnight realizes. He takes a moment to swallow thickly and inspect his blood coated dagger.

He shakes his head, he'll have time to think about it later. He needs to get his second bag and leave. Taking a steadying breath, and scouting around him, he quickly takes off towards a small pouch. Thankfully, it's entirely overlooked.

Renegade did tell him these are usually sleeping bags, and that having warmth going into nights can help not only for having a refreshed body, but a stable and sane mind. It's an obvious choice for Midnight. He picks up the pouch and rests it under his arm. He takes only a few steps before stopping entirely.

He frowns, only now noticing that Locust and Calder didn't run for the cornucopia at all, but decided to fight before it, effectively blocking his path. Locust finally rises from his position and he too freezes before Midnight.

The two boys lock gazes. Midnight quickly scans the larger tribute, noticing his bloody knuckles and a small cut across his cheek, but that's about it. Meaning, he's unarmed.

Killing him will never be any easier than now, Midnight realizes grimly. He drops the pouch and reaches for his pocket, pulling out his other dagger. Locust instantly tenses, his brows narrowing.

Midnight isn't delusional, he understands that even with both weapons, Locust still poses a very serious threat, and will be nothing like fighting Judah.

Still, even with that in mind, Locust is at his weakest, his most vulnerable, and Midnight is opportunistic if nothing else.

He lowers himself, ready to rush the large tribute when he notices something flash in his peripheral. It draws his attention, and the next moment, Midnight is diving back, letting the sudden knife whiz by him.

While still in the air, Midnight throws a dagger of his own, forcing Locust to stop his own charge and jump out the way, less his head be impaled.

The tribute from 1 lands roughly onto the ground, grunting in protest. He doesn't let it distract him too much, quickly sitting up to gather his small pouch and gets back onto his feet. He stares at the cornucopia, and sees the girl from 5, Emerald winding up another dagger.

He clicks his tongue in frustration even as he uses the pouch to shield the incoming blade. However in doing so, Locust is already half-way to the cornucopia. Midnight allows a smirk. Despite his perceived willingness, it seems Locust knows when to choose his battles.

Said smirk vanishes as he ducks under another blade. Just how many did she fucking have?! He can't turn his back to her, she'll kill him. He can however give her his side, less room to hit, and he can still run laterally, kind of like a crab.

He's enacting his plan just as Emerald moves to give Locust space to enter the cornucopia. Something must have been said as it seems she drops her focus on him. Whatever the case, Midnight doesn't look a gift horse in the mouth and turns to sprint fully dropping low to pick up one of the many daggers tossed his way.

Midnight gives one final look to the cornucopia before breaking through the treeline.

* * *

_POV – Sela Fields _

_1:01PM _

In her dash to the cornucopia, Sela has never been so focused, so determined in her life. Everything, everything she's done in the last week has led to this moment. The fear of death is crushed under the imposing responsibility she has to her district.

It steels her nerves and hardens her resolve. Her own personal feelings and concerns are irrelevant to the desperate consensus of 9. What is one girl's fears to the entire's district plea for food, for a victor's bonus? For future tribute's wellbeing and success?

Aspasia, as wonderful as the lady is, can only do so much. She knows little to help in this element, Harvest or Sela needs to win. To bring someone back for the future of 9, or it's children will continue to stain the arenas red.

Sela grabs a bag at the same time the young boy from 10 does. He freezes, almost hesitant. It gives Sela just a second to shove the tribute as she attempts to yank the bag from his grip. He manages to hold on, and starts to tug at it.

Sela lets him. Without any resistance, he manages to slingshot himself to the ground. She's already running to his side and kicks his head as hard as she can. She doesn't have time to hesitate, to concern herself with the implications of her actions.

He howls and cradles his head, startled and scared. His face is etched in pain, and his eyes shut closely, she ignores him beyond that though and reaches for the now discarded bag. She slings it over her shoulders before turning back to the boy.

He's finally recovering, but in doing so, he becomes firmly aware of his position. In a snap-second judgement, he turns before crawling into a run away from her.

Sela doesn't chase, letting him flee. She doesn't even have a weapon, and he doesn't have supplies, it's almost completely worthless to do so.

With that she turns and runs back to the cornucopia, approaching it cautiously and with her head constantly on a swivel. Too her left, two girls fight around sprawled spears. Sela, being unarmed shies away from it altogether and stays slightly closer to the center.

She doesn't venture too closely to the opening of the cornucopia, noticing Emerald by the mouth, occupied by someone in the distance.

Sela doesn't want to get too close to her or draw her attention and steadily makes her way to a dagger on the ground. She crouches to grab it and turn, coming face-to-face with the bronze skinned tribute from 6.

He stares at her, his dark brown eyes flickering to the dagger before back to her. He's low to the ground and hands spread out wide, as if ready to react.

Sela chews on her lip nervously, her gaze flicking to her right, seeing the girl from 4 skewers the one from 11. Her eyes flick to her left and she sees from over crates, Remy Cartwright dropping his knife into something, the sprays of blood the only indication sai something is someone.

She swallows thickly before turning back to the boy from 6. His faded orange jacket and dark black number emblazed over his heart being the giveaways to her assessment. She tightens her grip on the knife before lunging forward.

He nimbly steps aside, but being unarmed, he doesn't retaliate and instead runs past her. She turns trying to slash him in one swift motion, all hesitation eradicated from her intentions.

However, as her eyes trace her swing, it becomes clear that in her haste, in her hopes of slicing him with his back to her, that he didn't have any intentions of running away.

Her eyes dip low, seeing him crouching under her swing. He springs forward, putting his hands onto her stomach and shoving her to the ground.

They both fall, but the boy from 6 reacts first. He scrambles on top of her one hand making sure to pin hers with the dagger. His other goes to her neck and shoves into it as hard as he can trying to crush her windpipe. Her eyes bug, breathing becoming faint and heart beating rapidly. She'll lose consciousness quickly if she doesn't act. Her mind in a panic, she desperately throws a punch, hitting him on the side of the head.

It gives her a moment respite, as he releases a lot of the pressure, dazed. She recovers first, gulping air as she grabs his jacket collar. She flings him off her, taking an almost vindictive pleasure in hearing him choke.

He falls to the ground beside her, coughing hoarsely. She rolls away from him to make space before getting to her feet. Her ears are buzzing, and her face feels warm, likely flushed from the exertion. Her focus tunnels on the boy, her brows narrowing.

As such, she's completely blindsided when she's roughly shoved to the ground, stripped of her knife in the process. She lands on her back, with a grunt. The bag doesn't break the fall at all, as something hard pokes into her back.

"Out of my way!" A girl shouts angrily, running straight towards the treeline.

Sela stares in shock as the girl retreats with her dagger. Although, in all actuality what surprises her the most is the orange jacket she wears, identical to the boy she's been wrestling with. She shakes her head, realizing that just because she does something doesn't necessarily make it the norm.

She doesn't ponder the idea any longer, scrambling to her feet. The boy doesn't seem interested in prolonging the fight himself, turning to start running away.

He doesn't get far, an arrow whizzing across the field and embedding itself into his arm. He cries out and grips his injury as he tumbles to the ground. Sela traces the shot.

Seeing Harvest, bow in hand and sickle strapped to his belt is the most relieving thing Sela's seen in probably all her life, a huge weight lifting from her shoulders. She smiles kindly to him as the two dash to one another.

"Goodness, am I glad to see you."

Harvest nods, unlatching his sickle and giving the handle to her. She takes it hungrily, feeling a sense of security that comes with the familiar tool in her hand.

"He is not dead," Harvest points out, nodding his head towards the fallen tribute.

The boy from 6 weakly gets to his feet, but the calm composure he once had is gone and replaced with a fearful panic. He sees the two, and quickly scurries, running away from them as quickly as he can.

Neither Sela or Harvest try to chase him, and they take the small period to check their surroundings before leaning closer to one another and trying to discuss their plans over the sound of chaos.

Sela nods her head, "Let him go, we need to get away from the mayhem, then look for our allies."

Harvest nods in agreement, knocking another arrow into the bow as the two peel away from the cornucopia.

Sela makes her way to head to the treeline, ideally following where the girl from 6 dashed too, only for a hand to firmly grip her shoulder. She turns, and stares at Harvest curiously. He merely points with his head, nudging his chin forward.

Sela follows the gaze, and quickly chews on her tongue.

The pastel pink draws her attention first, the blood splatters staining it next. She frowns, not being able to recognize his face, it being too disfigured by whatever carved into it. It makes her stomach churn, and her legs feel wobbly.

A shriek of pain draws their attention, snapping their heads to the side. Remy Cartwright has a knife in one hand, and the arrow Harvest put into the boy from 6 in the other. For his part, he's clutching his arm, his jacket and fingers bloodied.

"We need to go," Harvest warns her.

Sela nods her head absently as she remains glued to the scene.

The boy weakly tosses a punch, something Remy sidesteps with ease before plunging the arrowhead into the tribute's neck. He falls to the ground a moment later, much like her heart does seeing how easily Remy dispatched the tribute she spent the better half of a minute fighting with.

Remy killed him easily, as if a simple warm-up. What's to stop him from doing the same with her or Harvest?

"Sela, we need to leave now!" Harvest shouts, grabbing her arm and dragging her away.

Remy gaze lands on her. His curly black hair sticks to his sweaty forehead, his hazel eyes narrow dangerously. It pales in comparison to the blood splattered across his face like war-paint.

It's not his. Not the boy from 6 either. No, it's Nylon's, was Nylon's. Indignation bubbles in her, anger even, but it quickly dies as an arrow soars past her head. She turns and sees Harvest already reaching for another one.

It's enough to snap her out of her trance, and she quietly murmurs an apology that drowns out in the ruckus. She turns and starts running past Harvest towards the treeline.

"I will follow, let me cover you," he explains.

She doesn't turn back, won't. She just hopes Remy won't chase them beyond the treeline. Nylon may have died, but the alliance with Velvet may very well still stand. She needs all the help she can get if Harvest or she wants to get home.

With that, she pushes even harder, harder than she did running to the cornucopia. From the jaws of death, to the foreboding unknown. The games will only get harder from here.

* * *

_POV - Harrison Jones _

_1:01PM _

When brought to the simplest of matters, simplest of terms, his survival can only come at the death of others, deaths he may very well need to orchestrate and execute. It's a testimony to how much his mentality shifted that when the cannon boomed, signaling the beginning of the games, the first thing Harrison sought was not his ally, it wasn't even survival goods, but a weapon.

He carries a pristine axe in his hand, clean of the sins he knows he must commit. He grabbed it easily with little protest, and most have avoided him ever since he's gripped the weapon. Avoiding him like the plague, like a harbinger of death, a reaper even.

All fair assessments, Harrison thinks wryly, time for the diplomat has long passed, the cloak and dagger of the pre-games will only carry him to the alliances he was capable of making there. In the arena, the only dagger in his hand should be a real one. Admitting that leaves him hollow, however.

Regardless, with axe in hand, he still can't deny how overwhelming the situation is still. Just because he's armed himself, doesn't mean he feels any safer, any more prepared. His head is on a swivel, watching fights as they break out.

Adalyn isn't on this side of the cornucopia, he concludes. It occurs to him then that, he should seek supplies before his partner. Showing up with just an axe sends the wrong message. At least with that in mind, it helps bury the bubbling anxiety he feels rising to his chest.

It's been only a mere minute, maybe two, just because he can't spot Adalyn does not mean she's faced the worst. He takes a steadying breath, trying to refocus himself. It's not as if Harrison has been idling in the middle of a battle.

He's doing only marginally worst, aimlessly running by the outskirts of the cornucopia. None of the tributes approach him, he noticed Velvet hover around him before leaving, and the boy from 6, Vortex did much the same.

Even as distracted as Harrison is, he's still not worth attacking, much less fighting. It's a bittersweet thought. He remembers a time where that's precisely what he coveted.

He shakes his head, at this point he's actively distracting himself. He turns to a bag, deciding it'll be good enough before he goes to the other side of the arena. He picks up his pace, turning to a sprint as he reaches the bag, grabbing it by the strap.

He tugs it only for the bag to suspend in the air, budging only slightly. The resistance throws him off and he turns to face the bag again, seeing the girl from 3 gripping it from the other strap.

A childish tug of war, Harrison realizes.

He also realizes she's unarmed. He tilts his head, staring at the girl in bafflement.

"Leave the bag and I will not harm you," Harrison explains, raising the axe in emphasis.

The girl seems to realize, her eyes widening. She nods her head quickly, understanding the gravity it seems. Harrison relaxes, and smiles softly at her. Perhaps all of those fears were for naught, perhaps diplomacy can work, even in the bloo-

Who is he kidding, Tesla yanks the bag from him, ripping it from his fingers. A desperate effort, one Harrison noticed the moment her eyes started to shift from bag to axe. She's without supplies even this many minutes into the bloodbath, of course she'd attempt something so clearly a last resort, a final gambit.

However, knowing this does nothing to appease his enraged indignation. The simmering frustration that comes from seeing all of his efforts ripped away by the ignorant child before him. He offered his hand in peace, gave her an opportunity to leave, unharmed and alive. And all she can think of is the bag, short-sighted machinations that only lead to forcing his hand.

Harrison's eyes burn murderously at the petite figure, carrying his bag of supplies, those same supplies that can bring him home, help him achieve his goal, his destiny. She sees a hand offering peace and she practically bites down on it, like a ravenous dog. Putting a feral animal down would be a mercy, his mind whispers in his ears.

Harrison's brow twitches as his body acts before his mind can instruct. He brings his axe down onto the fleeing girl, digging through her jacket and cleaving into her flesh with ease.

She screams out before flopping to the ground. It's her shouts of pain, her cries of agony that bring Harrison back from his relapse, blinking slowly at the transpiring events. He numbly stares at the fallen girl, she's still and deathly quiet.

Harrison swallows thickly, the anger seeping out of him much like the blood seeps from her back. He works his jaw anxiously as he goes to take the bag from the non-resisting girl. One moment, one single moment of anger managed to dismantle everything he's strived to become.

He chuckles hollowly, slinging the bag over his shoulder, making sure not to disrupt her any further. It's immensely difficult to remain angry at someone recently killed, Harrison realizes solemnly. Especially when the reason for killing is something as petty, as trivial, as a bag.

Trivial in other circumstances, he reminds himself. It was always going to come to this, Harrison knew this the moment he was reaped.

He dashes from the fallen girl, looking for his ally. Armed, and his weapon tested, those who may have thought him a target now avoid him immensely. Only a career would dare approach Harrison. He nearly runs into Corolla, who veers away from him so evidently that it seems almost as if he's personally offended her.

A fair precaution, he's killed after all. What's to say he can't do it again?

Making his way across the cornucopia is a tedious effort in vigilance. He nimbly strides behind the metal construct, not wanting to meet the careers around it's mouth. In doing so, he remains safe, but also entirely blindsided when he rounds the cornucopia.

No more than 15 yards, lays his district partner, blood staining her up to her elbows, marring the baby blue fabric in red. Harrison freezes, his eyes widening and heart clenching. His ally, his only ally lays on the ground, the only solace of home, sans his token.

He panics, almost shouting out her name in frustrated protest. Doing so would alert any tributes of his vulnerability however, and he instead clenches his jaw. Thankfully, on closer inspection, he notices her chest rises and falls, if faintly.

He runs madly to her side, checking over his shoulder as he kneels beside her. Her eyes open, staring up at him.

"H-hey," she chokes out, the action causing her eyes to shut.

"Adalyn, don't talk," he chides her gently, inspecting her over.

Adalyn nods softly, wincing even at that and he quickly goes to look at her wound. Her stomach's bleeding still, and her jacket's almost entirely stained red, meshing hideously with the puncture wound. She's been speared deeply, he notices instantly. Harrison goes to pry the jacket, only for her whimpering protests to curb that notion immediately.

"D-don't, it… it hurts," she weakly begs.

Begs! Adalyn Plumm begging, the explosive girl with a volatile temperament softly sobs before him in her fleeting moments. It's… it's incredibly jarring and all Harrison can do is nod numbly. He quickly checks his shoulder again. Remy's killed Vortex. And his focus is entirely on the pair from 9. That gives Harrison some time at least, and he turns back to Adalyn.

"I can't pick you up," he says, not asking, not speculating, simply knowing.

Adalyn nods her head weakly, agreeing. The pain would be too much, merely touching her left Adalyn in whimpers, imagine carrying her, moving her? In the terrain beyond the treeline? Harrison knows how turbulent forest terrain can be.

"And you can't move- walk either," Harrison continues, moving his head closer, trying to get a better look at the stomach wound.

"R-right."

Harrison shuts his eyes as he pulls away from her stomach, feeling suddenly exhausted. She'll bleed out, dead before nightfall. It's a chilling realization. One Harrison takes a moment to compose himself for, aware that if he spoke, his voice may waver, may reveal how devastating it is to realize he'll be in these games alone.

He rubs the back of his neck, for once, without anything to say, a lost for words. It's a terrible feeling, but the cause of said feeling sting considerably worst. He works his jaw again, clearing his throat as he looks to his ally.

"Ada-"

"Kill me."

Harrison clamps his mouth shut, silenced entirely. His mind is scrambling, trying to make sense of it all. Moments ago he feared his ally dead, then saw her alive but basically already gone, and now she asks of him to murder her? It's way too much for a minute!

"I… I will do no such thing. I'll think of something," Harrison dismisses, looking over his shoulder again.

The bloodbath is mostly settling, some stragglers like Newton or Velvet do their best to avoid the careers, and for the most part, said careers don't seem particularly invested in hunting them down.

Either way, his time is running short.

Adalyn smiles ruefully, tears spilling from her eyes.

"It hurts," she says softly.

Harrison flinches, moving away from her, when did he touch her? He made sure not to touch her stom- oh. He swallows nervously. She's been in pain this whole time, obviously, it's so fucking obvious when he thinks about it. It's a puncture wound, skewering organs no doubt.

"I… It hurts so... so much," she forces herself to finish the sentence, wincing painfully as she does.

Harrison stares at her wordlessly, the grip on his axe tightening. Her breaths start to come out as shallow gasps for air, her chest rising and falling rapidly.

Harrison furrows his brows. She's asking him to murder her, it's a tall demand, one that would wreck havoc in most minds, to lay this on him… murder isn't really the word for it is it. She's not asking to be murdered, but to be put to rest.

He fidgets nervously, before looking into Adalyn's eyes.

"p-please," she barely whispers.

Harrison closes his eyes. He's killed already, he's done it to the girl from 3, to Tesla. He's killed before. Out of anger and rage. Now, he'll do it again out of compassion.

He snaps his eyes open and takes a deep breath, raising his axe.

She smiles up at him kindly with unfocused eyes, sweaty forehead, and shallow breaths. Harrison only focuses on how it's the kindest she's ever looked at him. He tries to return a smile of his own, but it undoubtedly comes across as strained, etched with hints of despair and fear. Still, as her ally, and only semblance of home, he'll comfort her, and honour her request.

His eyes harden, and he traces down her face just below her chin, to her neck. He clenches his jaw, and then brings the axe down.

* * *

_POV - Kyra Boldar_

_1:04PM_

Kyra stands at the mouth of the cornucopia, idly watching Remy disappear beyond the treeline, pursuing the pair from 9 after slashing a kid's throat out. It… well it isn't enough to make Kyra squirm or flinch, but to see Remy completely embrace the act of killing is a bit unsettling.

Kyra wouldn't relish in the act, she wouldn't shy from it either though. Maybe Remy's just cooked up on adrenaline. Kyra hasn't fought against anyone, just standing here, aimlessly.

She turns her head, looking behind her to see Mischa rummage through some of the supplies inside the metal construct. Mischa's crouched over some boxes, looking through them, her rapier strapped to her belt, clean and unbloodied.

That's the role Mischa assigned herself, to look over supplies, it confuses Kyra greatly. She can't quite understand the girl from 1, she's simply too guarded. Either way, seeing her avoiding the conflict made Kyra decide to do the same, just 'defend' the supplies.

As if anyone would approach the cornucopia with Emerald chucking knives and Kyra equipped to the teeth in spears.

Still, Kyra doesn't want any part in the easy slaughter. It's pointless, she came to fight against those who can do the same. She'll fight those who attack her, but not those who flee in terror. Kyra's not a monster.

At least, she doesn't want to believe as such.

She frowns as she sees Remy emerge from the trees, looking considerably dourer than he did entering them. He spots her and zeroes in on her, looking conflicted. Kyra grips her spear in response but doesn't show any obvious signs of tensing.

"Lost the 9 pair, kept getting arrows shot at me," Remy explains with a shrug as he gets close enough to Kyra.

She nods her head in understanding, not recalling actually asking him for said explanation, but deciding that indulging him is best for now.

"So, what are you doing? Valiantly defending our supplies?" Remy asks with a teasing smirk, crossing his arms as he quirks an eyebrow.

Kyra is the one to shrug this time, not finding it particularly easy to joke with someone covered in blood, especially when it isn't even there's either.

"To my very last breath," Kyra remarks dryly.

Remy's smirk grows, but that's all the indication he enjoyed her comment, he looks inside the construct and tilts his head, his brows narrowing.

"Mischa's here too? We don't need that many people guarding the supplies," Remy says, looking exasperated.

"Work in pairs, if I recall, that's what you said," Mischa speaks up, turning to face Remy with her arms folded.

"I also recall saying that for if you plan to fight any of the threats, Magnus, Calder, Midnight," Remy lists off, stopping on the boy from 1 with a pointed glare at her.

"If I'm here, surveying our supplies, it's not as if Kyra can simply go and challenge them alone, as per your suggestion of course," Mischa placates.

Kyra frowns, she doesn't need permission to go fight these tributes. She chose to guard the cornucopia to avoid killing the young. Remy looks as if he's ready to continue pressing Mischa, so instead, Kyra clears her throat drawing both of their attention.

"She has her back to the opening, I'm just making sure no one blindsides her," Kyra explains.

Remy sighs tiredly, but brushes the topic away, "whatever, Kyra you've killed a tribute yet?"

Kyra tenses, and narrows her brows, where is he going with this?

"No."

Remy shakes his head as he puts his hands on his hips, "sullying D2's name," he raises a hand as Kyra opens her mouth, "yeah I know I said I want kills, but you're going to look like an embarrassment to our district and all of Panem if you don't secure at least one."

Kyra shuts her mouth, conceding the point. D2 is known for their ferocity, Miss Kingsley, Mister Sorensen, even her own personal trainer, Miss Andrzejewski were all proficient killers, and they all managed to get at least one kill in the bloodbath. She's also looked over enough games to know kills rack up the most sponsor attention.

"Bloodbath is mostly dying down, but we got a few stragglers lingering," Remy says stepping out of the shade of the cornucopia.

Kyra follows taking a javelin with her. Remy has his arms crossed as he scans the clearing. Seeing this, Kyra does the same, noticing only half a dozen tributes nearby, the rest disappeared into the trees or lay fallen on the field.

"Those two, one for each," Remy says with chilling finality, dropping his arms to his belt, where his daggers stay.

Kyra follows his gaze with hers and feels her heart sink seeing two young tributes running with bags strapped to their backs.

"They're easy kills, but almost escaping. Take one of them out," Remy instructs, grabbing the bloody knives off his belt.

Kyra grits her teeth, staring critically at him.

He shrugs, "take your pick, a ranged kill from this distance will please the sponsors, hell, might even put you in the Boule's good graces."

Kyra chews her lip but ultimately lifts her javelin. It's not a tremendously hard shot to make, and the pair aren't looking back, as if they've already expected to escape.

They're maybe no more than 15 yards from the treeline. But they're running in a straight line, easy to hit as long as she takes into account their speed. Kyra takes a few quick strides, planting with her left foot as she hefts the javelin, she follows through her throw, taking a final step as she lets the javelin soar.

Remy's already taking off from beside her, trailing behind the gliding projectile. The bag might soften the blow, and therefore her target could potentially survive that. Remy likely knows this too, which is why he deems it an impressive throw to make. After all, with the back and thus torso, not a suitable target to hit, it narrows it down considerably.

She watches only until she knows her javelin will hit true and turns just as she sees the tipped end reach the back of the boy's head. She closes her eyes somberly and goes back into the cornucopia to pick up her spear.

As she heads out, she sees Remy walking up to the pair, or the remains of it. The boy's on the ground, javelin protruding from him. He's unmoving, so Kyra's quick to conclude he's dead. At least it was fast, she thinks sourly, making her way to her weapon.

Remy's standing before the fallen shellshocked girl, her eyes wide, mouth gaping. It's as if she wants to scream but nothing will come out. Kyra frowns seeing it. The girl is from 7, Kyra notes absently, staring at her red locks and the forest green of the jacket.

"Good throw," Remy allows, nodding slightly.

The praise makes Kyra feel sick. Her mouth thins, and she wordlessly nods in return. Not that Remy notices it already approaching the girl.

Kyra didn't see, but at some point, the girl's legs must have given out, as now, all she can do is only stare in abject horror at the pair from 2. Probably when the javelin caved in her ally's head, she chastises, the games are traumatizing enough, but to witness a death so brutal? For a girl untrained for it, the fact she's conscious or isn't spilling her breakfast is impressive in itself.

Remy shakes his head, as he marches towards the girl. Only when he grips her from her hair and raises her to her knees does she react at all, wincing and finally starting to panic. He lifts her head further, exposing her pale porcelain neck.

Remy doesn't smile, staring emptily to the side even as the girl begs and babbles for her life in between sobs. Kyra shakes her head and turns away, the sound of crying and hopeless pleas the only noise she can focus on.

"Is that three?" Kyra asks above the bawls for one's family.

"It's three," Remy answers monotonously.

Kyra hears the cries explode in suffering before ruthlessly cutting off into gurgles.

* * *

**_Eulogies_**

**Calder Lynch: I had a lot of fun writing Calder, being one of the more abrasive tributes I received, It was interesting to show off his gruff exterior. But inside he was kind and compassionate, that would have shown more if he made it further into these games. However, his death was the very first I thought of, as such, I wanted to make sure people could see just how philosophical and kind he can really be. Thanks so much for submitting Calder!**

**Nylon Hemmings: The second death I knew I wanted to write. Nylon's humour and almost meme-like behavior was an absolute blast to write! I enjoyed very much writing his conversations with Velvet. His morbid humour fits so well in a morbid game, I'm sad to have him bow out so early, but at the same time, his death sets up things to past. Thanks Manny for submitting Nylon!**

**Judah Rockefeller: Judah was a very unique character to write, Defo explained him as a gentleman thief during my Persona 5 craze, so I just pictured him like Joker XD! I really enjoyed writing him very old fashion-like. But his physical illness was something I needed to take into consideration. He was a wonderful character who simply was placed in a cast where the strong were too perceptive and capable of noticing his weakness. I had a lot of fun writing him!**

**Vortex Senna: Vortex being from 6 let me expand on my own characters in Icarus and Karan, and honestly in doing so I feel bad for him and his partner, as they got the short end of the stick no doubt. Vortex was put down a path that simply led to an early demise, and I didn't see his story going much further than the bloodbath. His interactions with the alliance, however, was very enjoyable to write. Thank-you for submitting him santiago poncini!**

**Adalyn Plumm: She was a very interesting character to write, I think she meshed well with Harrison. I shamelessly must admit I loved the bee motif I had going with her, and I just ran with it. Her mix of being super quick to anger, but otherwise subconsciously trying to be demure was just a fun concept to write. I liked Adalyn a lot! Her death to Harrison came to me like an epiphany, I just knew I had to do it.**

**Cooper Dawson: Cooper's love for dogs was a fast track for me to love him too! Cooper and his reaping inadvertently helped me create Cronus, and for that, I'm incredibly grateful! I didn't have much plans for Cooper going far into the games. However, had he survived he would have offered a very unique and interesting approach to the Mutts in the arena.**

**Hazel Redford: Thank-you so much for Hazel, Para. She was simply so much fun to write, and I found myself doing so much research just to sound half as smart as she. I struggled so, so much writing this final POV, as she was one of the hardest decisions for me to make regarding the bloodbath. I was in tears when I finally resigned myself to use her in the bloodbath. Her innocence and compassion was so sweet, I truly loved writing her.**

* * *

**_Rankings_**

**24th Calder Lynch Killed by Locust Sequoia**

**23rd Nylon Hemmings Killed by Remy Cartwright**

**22nd Judah Rockefeller Killed by Midnight Tyrian**

**21st Vortex Senna Killed by Remy Cartwright**

**20th Adalyn Plumm Killed by Harrison Jones**

**19th Cooper Dawson Killed by Kyra Boldar**

**18th Hazel Redford Killed by Remy Cartwright**

* * *

**The 99th Hunger Games Tributes **

**_District 1: Midnight Tyrian / Mischa Morrigan _**

**_District 2: Remy Cartwright / Kyra Boldar_**

**_District 3: Magnus Flux / Tesla Eddison_**

**_District 4: ELIMINATED / Cyrus Waterlily_**

**_District 5: Newton Faraday / Emerald Locke_**

**_District 6: ELIMINATED / Corolla Beron_**

**_District 7: Locust Sequoia / ELIMINATED _**

**_District 8: ELIMINATED / Velvet Snijder _**

**_District 9: Harvest Henderson / Sela Fields_**

**_District 10: ELIMINATED / Destry Coleman_**

**_District 11: Harrison Jones / ELIMINATED _**

**_District 12: ELIMINATED / Mila Carway_**


	23. The Legacy

_POV – Remy Cartwright_

_Day 1 in the Arena…_

_1:09PM _

Remy releases his grip on the red silky hair, letting the young tribute slump to the ground lifelessly. He did his last kill without the adrenaline pumping through his veins, and as a result, much of the mirth and excitement quickly wears off.

He takes a final glance at the fallen girl, the pool of blood soaking into the grass. Her hair sprawls across her face, masking the no doubt dead open eyes.

A chilling reality, but one he was ready for. He flicks his dagger before strapping it to his belt again. He turns to look at the other tribute. A javelin sticking out of his head and caving into the skull with relative ease. It's an impressive shot, hitting the head from this distance. With the force she had, she probably could have aimed for the kid's back just fine and pierce through the bag like a pen through paper.

"Nice shot," He says, turning to face his district partner.

Kyra's grimaces but nods her head in acceptance of the praise. She moves past him and rips the javelin out of the head with a wet squelch.

Remy takes a moment to scan the surroundings, looking around the clearing. Dead lay on the ground, supplies tossed aside, rummaged through, spears spilled, knives digging into the dirt, but otherwise, only he and his allies remain.

The spoils are mostly untarnished. 3 kills is nothing to scoff at, albeit, he'd much rather have accumulated at more, with his goal in mind, more is always better. He counts the bodies, seeing 8 dead. That means 15 possible tributes left.

He and Kyra march back to the cornucopia, him deep in thought and Kyra silent, as per usual.

15 tributes, 4 his allies, Magnus, Midnight and the boy from 11 being the other threats. He shakes his head, and begrudgingly adds the boy from 9 to the list. Although not a terribly good shot, he's resilience and composure to shoot at Remy at all is commendable.

Either way, that makes half the tributes still contenders, only the fodder died during the bloodbath, Calder being the unlucky bastard closest to Locust.

Out of those 15, he needs at least 9 more. It's not going to be easy. But then again, he doesn't do things because they are. Yhe greater the challenge, the higher he rises to meet them.

Remy snaps from his musings as he stops before the mouth of the metallic structure.

Emerald's sitting on some crates, a pile of knives on the grass before her, while multiple others are strapped to her belt. Locust leans against the cornucopia, inspecting the massive battle axe in his grip. A two-sided two-handed weapon nearly as tall as the man wielding it. Certainly strikes for an imposing figure, Remy observes impassively.

Remy walks pass the two, into the cornucopia itself. He immediately notices Mischa packing a bag, she stops and turns to him, looking uninterested.

"Can I help you with something, Remy?" She starts neutrally.

He shrugs in response, "sure, planning on running off?"

"If by running off, you mean to hunt, then yes, that's the point of these games," she answers calmly as if explaining to a child.

Remy smirks, "now you show an interest to hunt?

"As opposed to 10 minutes ago?" Mischa says dryly.

"A lot can happen in 10 minutes," Remy reminds her, his smirk growing.

Mischa smiles in return, "A statement I wholly agree with."

"Now what?" Locust says, breaking the silence, no longer distracted by the axe.

Remy turns to walk out, only to stop when he feels a hand on his shoulder. He looks back to Mischa, his gaze dropping to the hand offering a small towel. He stares at her wordlessly, with a quizzical eyebrow.

"For the blood," she answers simply.

He nods his head, taking the towel and rubbing it across his face, it comes back stained red. He ignores the sinking feeling and makes his way to Locust.

"Inventory check, gear up, we're hunting right away."

Locust nods his head.

"What about the supplies?" Emerald asks standing from the crates.

Remy looks at her disappointingly, "you've watched how many games?"

Emerald blinks quickly, "I… uh, 27- no 28."

"What did the pack do with the supplies?" Remy continues, unperturbed.

"Well in the 72nd ga-"

"I don't give a shit about specifics. What's the consensus? What did packs do on average?"

Emerald frowns, scrunching her eyebrows as she ponders the question, "…guard the supplies?"

"You don't know?"

"N-no, I mean, yes I do know. It's just, oh…" she babbles, realization finally dawning on her.

Remy rolls his eyes exasperatedly, she's not kept around for her brains, Remy reminds himself.

"I'll stand watch," Kyra finally says.

Remy shakes his head, "no, Mischa you'll stay behind, guard the supplies. You're quite good at it after all."

Mischa's mouth thins, "you must be joking."

"And yet, you're not amused," Remy shrugs indifferently.

"I never said you were funny," Mischa answers crossing her arms across her chest.

Remy mirth dissipates, "hilarious, you missed your true calling as a comedian."

Mischa shakes her head as if done indulging Remy, his mouth twitches into a smirk, satisfied with that.

"So you don't want me to join because I don't have a kill? Is that it? I can rectify that," Mischa says tiredly.

Remy freezes, his eyes narrowing dangerously, "is that a threat Mischa?"

"To an idiot perhaps, to others, just an observation."

Remy stares at her suspiciously, but makes no move to reach for his dagger, "care to explain?"

Mischa sighs as she drops her arms to her side, "if you insist, but first, how many dead do you count?"

"8," comes the instant reply.

"I suppose that would make you the idiot then. I count 7."

Remy's eyes widen, and he quickly scans over the bodies again. His kills first, than the boy from 10, boy from 12, girl from 11, Calder, until finally, his gaze lands on the girl from 3. She's bleeding from her back, but, on closer inspection, her chest back slowly rises and falls, it's so faint, so subtle that at first glance, the blood would make anyone dismiss her as a corpse.

He turns back to Mischa, a smirk growing, "I guess you're right."

Mischa's mouth thins, as she stares tiredly at him. Remy ignores the exasperated glare as he marches towards the fallen girl. He can feel Mischa following close behind, just hovering a few feet behind him.

"You spotted it, so if you wa-"

"I don't care for kills, you're the one with the hefty goal," Mischa deflects easily.

Remy shrugs as he finally reaches the fallen girl. He stomps down onto her wound, eliciting a sharp cry of pain as her whole-body tenses under his boot. The girl's eyes snap open as she claws her fingers through the grass, futilely attempting squirm away from him. She really was alive, she went completely unnoticed by him, they might even have went hunting leaving her to escape. Lucky him he supposes. He unbuckles a knife as the girl feebly attempts to crawl from under his heel.

"N-no, wait I ca-"

He flicks the dagger into the girl's neck, cutting off her sentence and snuffing out the remainder of her strength. He wretches the knife out before wiping it against the towel still in hand.

_BOOM _

The cannon echoes throughout the arena. 7 others follow in quick succession.

"If you don't care for kills, why are you so adamant about joining the hunt?" Remy asks as the final cannon's echo fades.

Mischa stays silent for a few moments, but eventually answers, "a Morrigan sister, sitting idly at the cornucopia while the rest of the careers are out fighting, it paints the exact picture I wish to avoid."

Remy scoffs, "didn't expect such a childish reason from you."

"And you? Why do you want 12 kills?"

Remy smirks, "to destroy a legacy."

He walks pass her, heading back to the cornucopia again.

Kyra, Locust and Emerald look the part of careers, which Remy realizes is a bit ridiculous as the only real one is his district partner. Either way, they are decked out with gear.

"Change of plans. Kyra if you still want to stay, feel fr-" Remy stops, noting his district partner's apparent distress.

Kyra's jaw is clenched, her grip on the spear tight, she seems torn about something, perhaps she resolved herself finally to go hunt. He tilts his head and narrows his eyes suspiciously as he looks to his other allies.

Emerald looks confused, but Remy's quickly realizing Emerald's either confused, chatting, droning out hunger games facts, or a combination of the three. His gaze hovers over Locust, the big man quirks an eyebrow, seemingly surprised but unmoving. It makes Remy immediately suspicious, Locust is simple, what could possibly confuse him?

Remy's eyes widen like saucers. It dawns on him there, at that moment, in a painful picture of clarity. The 3 aren't looking at him.

They're looking behind him.

Remy drops the towel, spinning on his heels as he reaches for his daggers. He unbuckles it from his strap and grips the blade tightly, raising it hastily. He faces Mischa, ready to plunge the dagger into her neck, only to find himself frozen.

No, stopped. His mouth fills up, and he finds himself coughing out blood. He shakily lowers his gaze, his eyes finding themselves looking at the thin silver of a rapier in his chest.

He stares back at her balefully, willing himself to just move forward, to get in striking distance.

He drops his dagger instead, his arm going limp to his side. The rapier is ripped out of his chest and he falls ungracefully to the ground. He stares up at her murderously, even as his eyes become unfocused and mouth spills blood down chin.

This fucking bitch, he'll kill her, he'll fucking kill her. He can't die, not now, now until he destroys Spartacus, his legacy. Not until he goes home in glory, in the fame and luxuries that give him everything he's wanted. Not until he's bestowed the riches to his father, hard-pressed to find a man more deserving, to repay the kindness in his weight of gold. He's Remy Cartwright, what he sets his mind to, he achieves, what he wants, he gets. And this fucker betrayed him! Not that he didn't expect a betrayal, but, from everyone, no more than 10 minutes-

His eyes widen in realization as he stares at Mischa. His anger slowly ebbs away, and he smirks for one last time.

* * *

_POV – Mischa Morrigan_

_1:15PM _

_BOOM _

The cannon signals his death, a clean stab to the heart, how he stayed conscious, for that long is staggering. But the acceptance at the end, the begrudging respect, it's somehow more unsettling than the baleful resentment.

She flicks her rapier and then looks at the three tributes before her. There's a lull, a calm before the storm. Before all chaos breaks out, Mischa can sense it, she needs to maneuver this delicately, Locust's standing defensively before Emerald, using his body as a shield, she's already holding knives in each hand as well.

Whatever the case, it's clear they're sticking together. Kyra on the other hand, she grimaces as she looks at Remy's corpse, but flicks her brown eyes onto Mischa, resolved, hardened.

There will be no alliance between the two girls, Mischa realizes immediately. Even if the two indirectly agreed it was the right decision. Mischa knows she needs to rationalize her choice to the trio, or she'll very quickly find herself like Remy.

"Allow me to explain-"

"You killed him, not much more to elaborate on," Emerald pipes up, gripping the daggers harshly, her brows are knitted and mouth in a thin frown.

"My reasoning for killing him then. Remy wanted 12 kills, to emulate Spartacus."

"To beat him," Kyra corrects although there's no bite behind it, it's almost as if she's absently listening to what Mischa has to say.

Mischa swallows nervously, that's not good for her, to put it simply.

"Yes, to beat him, surely you know how he did it though, correct?"

Emerald's frown deepens, but she nods her head, "he killed his whole alliance bar his district partner."

"Precisely, there's no doubt he would do the same to us, I took matters into my own hands," Mischa replies, nodding with Emerald's assessment.

"You betrayed the alliance before it could betray you," Locust says.

Mischa's brows lower, she supposes he's not wrong, but it paints her antagonistically. She nods her head anyways, not thinking his observation incorrect despite that.

"I propose a momentary truce," Mischa says.

Kyra scoffs as she rolls her eyes, her grip on her spear never loosening. Locust nods his head, seemingly interested. It prompts Mischa to continue, she takes a deep steadying breath, only then realizing how rapidly her heart beats.

"I will be exiled from the alliance, taking only the bag I packed and rapier, you can inspect my bag and see what items I have. In exchange, I ask for a single hour grace period."

"What's stopping us from just killing you now? There's 3 of us?" Kyra points out.

Mischa doesn't want to answer that question, as it'd break down negotiations instantly. The answer is obvious, she'd fight them, not everyone would survive that. Mischa would make sure of it. Thankfully, however, she doesn't need to.

"I agree to your terms," Locust says ignoring the almost betrayed look Kyra shoots him, "I will not hunt you, but I do not speak for either of them."

He gestures to the two girls by his side. Emerald scrunches her face in thought, spinning a knife in her hand absently as she ponders it.

"I'll accept as long as I can decide what items you keep."

Mischa purses her lips, prompting Emerald to continue, "I won't leave you without water or food, but if you have the only compass, or map of the arena, if provided, then naturally I'd rather keep it instead."

She nods her head, deciding although an unfavourable compromise, it puts her only needing to worry about Kyra.

Kyra clenches her jaw as she stares at Mischa, "I want you gone when Emerald's done with you," she says eventually with a frustrated shake of her head.

Mischa nods, walking past the three of them. Her instincts scream at her to not give her back to them, but she needs to show some trust in the negotiation. That doesn't mean she sheaths her rapier, that remains firmly in her hand. She walks into the cornucopia and scoops up her bag, she goes to the trio again and drops it at their feet.

"By all means, please inspect my bag."

Emerald immediately falls to her knees and unzips the bag, rummaging through it before settling with just turning it upside down and emptying its contents. Mischa resists frowning, having her mouth thin instead.

Water bottles, ration bars, a sleeping bag, some toiletries, sheathed hunting knife, bandages, painkillers, and more fall to the ground. Emerald quickly looks the things over, having the courtesy to put them back into the bag as she deems them acceptable.

Eventually, only the knife remains, something Emerald adds to her growing collection, "you have your rapier, I don't want to give you any more excess weapons if possible."

Mischa nods gracefully, deciding that it's probably a pointless argument, and to show she's true to her word.

She looks to her sides, to her right, lies the dead girl from 11, and the boy from 6, to her left, the boy from 12 and Calder. There's a lot of knives sprinkled all over the ground however, piquing Mischa's curiosity. Some dig into the ground, signaling they were thrown.

"There's some knives on the ground around here, am I safe to assume taking any breaches our truce?"

"Yep, please leave them be," Emerald asks kindly.

"You threw them correct?"

"Most of them yeah," Emerald responds easily.

Mischa hangs to the word, 'most' as she examines the tossed daggers. After all, she does recall the pedestal Midnight started on.

Mischa nods her head, "I understand. I'll leave the knives be," she answers, leaving with a small bow and wave.

Again, having her back to two capable ranged fighters as she leaves makes her muscles tense and anxiety spike. However, she will not run nor cower. She's a Morrigan Sister, and with that comes a certain expectation, to be poise, to be successful, and to never sully the family name. Fleeing for her life- although arguably what she's doing now, simply would be unbecoming of her, especially if done so in such a cowardly manner. She can't give the impression of weakness or fear. Running does both.

That being said, her hour grace period has started, the moment she breaks through the treeline, briskly jogging would be entirely reasonable.

She stands at the edge of the clearing, her head tilting upwards to see the top of the high rising trees. From what she can see, there are a variety of trees circling around the clearing of the bloodbath. She takes a deep breath, then steps forward, into the jungle unknown.

Well not entirely, she at least has a rough idea of where she wants to head, or rather, who she wishes to seek.

* * *

_POV – Harvest Henderson_

_1:19PM_

8 booms resonate throughout the arena in quick succession. And as if demanding even more attention, another shortly follows with chilling finality. Harvest tilts his head upwards, dreadful anticipation of hearing another. After a few seconds, he calms down and reviews what he heard. 9 deaths, 9 tributes have already fallen and bowed out of the Games. It couldn't have been more than thirty minutes since he's been in this forsaken arena. Harvest clutches his knees as he's bent over, panting heavily from the excessive exertion. Running from Remy was a terrifying ordeal, despite how he may look on the outside.

To his side Sela's leaning against one of the trees, her chest rising and falling erratically as she tries to desperately gain control of her breathing again. Harvest takes the moment to check his quiver, counting the arrows. He's lost one in the boy's arm, and another six shooting at Remy. None hit, none even got close.

But it was enough to slow Remy down, and before long, he eventually gave up on the pair, unfortunately, that did mean he and Sela got separated from Velvet, the other living member of their alliance.

Would she think they abandoned her when they found out Nylon died?

The thought itself makes Harvest frown. Nylon was alive and breathing no more than thirty minutes ago, less than 24 he was discussing the importance, the value of the vial in his hands. And now, they'll never get the opportunity to see it work.

"We… we need to find Velvet," Sela says through gasps of air.

Harvest turns to face his district partner, her raven hair's a mess, and her neck is starting to show the colouration of a bruise. The bloodbath was less successful for her than him, he realizes grimly.

"Are you alright?"

"Hmm, what do you mean?" She asks confusedly.

Harvest points to his own neck, "you are bruised."

Sela touches her neck, hissing as she winces, "ah, yes, it was from when that boy was choking me out. I'm fine though." She finishes, seeing Harvest scrutinizing gaze.

Harvest remains skeptical, staring at her worriedly before nodding his head. With that out of the way, he scans his surroundings, finally having the time to soak them in.

Massive trees that reach well beyond those he saw around the district. Their bark thick, and trunks are massive. The ground is layered with all sorts of uneasy footing, foliage, vines, and underbrush mask most of the dry dirt flooring.

Despite that, Harvest recently notices a decline, although subtle, present nevertheless. He's marching downhill, although when he can't say. In the heat of the moment, his only goal was to escape Remy. That mad dash, however, had only smooth flooring.

Brushing off that detail, he stares upwards, looking up to the tree crowns. They rise high, and their leaves spread wide forming a canopy. The blazing sun still breaks through, sprinkling the forest floor with spiderweb-like patterns.

"Finding Velvet may be difficult," Harvest says, reigning the conversation.

"Not as difficult as you may think," she responds, drawing Harvest's gaze to her.

She pushes from the tree, taking one final moment to caress her neck before looking to him.

"Nylon's poison."

Harvest tilts his head as his brows scrunch, "may you please elaborate."

"The taipan beetle, he had a vial of it. We're the only 3 that know of it, as such, no one would loot it off him."

Harvest nods, "that is possible. But the career pack may still remain."

"Do they? We heard 8 cannons, signaling the bloodbath ended, another afterward. There's just as likely a chance that means the pack's gone off to hunt already. Remy does seem the type," Sela explains.

Harvest shakes his head, "just as possible it was two tributes meeting in this jungle," he emphasizes the point by looking around him with an outstretched hand.

Sela frowns, but nods her head, "that's also true."

Silence falls between them. And yet, it becomes deafening, Harvest quickly becomes aware of the lack of sound, the lack of life in this jungle. He swallows thickly, not liking the implications. If there is no food to hunt, will they all not starve if they've not gotten supplies?

The Hunger Games, he reminds himself. Not a good omen at all, he turns back to Sela, seeing her press her lips to a bottle. At least they've managed resources. But has Velvet?

Is the alliance destroyed simply due to the fall of one of them? Was it always so fragile to begin with? He shakes his head, thinking anything else would be ridiculous. Alliances in these games will not last. He once again looks to Sela. How long before theirs breaks?

Plagued by hesitation and doubts the first hour in, albeit, his sister didn't have concerns of an alliance. She never had a chance and when that lizard monstrosity fell upon her, there was no one to assist her.

"Harvest?"

He blinks, looking to his district partner, Sela stares at him with furrowed brows, etched in concern. He cringes at how silly such thoughts are in the presence of his ally.

"I apologize, I was lost in thought. I believe we should go back."

She quickly smiles at him, nodding her head in agreement, "I'm glad, we'll be cautious, no unnecessary risks, the poison would be nice to have, but if they're still there we should leave, ready to run."

Harvest nods, liking the plan.

* * *

_POV – Velvet Snijder _

_1:23PM _

She waits. First, with seeing Remy kill the girl from 3, then, seeing he himself die, then the girl from 1 leaving, then the bodies taken and piled to the corner of the bloodbath, and finally, with the odd pair of the pseudo-careers leaving soon afterwards.

She waits, and waits, and waits, watching as two tributes die before her. And finally, after it all quiets and the dust settles, only Kyra remains at the bloodbath.

Velvet curbs the almost giddy-like excitement that builds up seeing the pack split up. First with Mischa leaving not too far from where she hides, and then the odd pseudo-career pair, carrying too many supplies for it to be considered a normal hunt.

The tall boy from 7 carried a crate and a few bags, whereas the girl herself had two slinging from her back and another two in her arms. It's enough to venture out on their own, and the only conclusion to come from seeing such a sight. Day 1 and the pack crumbles, dying with Remy. Velvet can't help but smile at the outcome, regardless of how morbid the notion is. All of the big players scattered across the arena, and yet, arguably the most valuable thing remains in the bloodbath.

A poison so strong, it kills in minutes from the faintest of touches. The possibilities of it to land in the hands of Velvet are too valuable to let up, too valuable to let it be buried in a coffin. Nylon may have died, but Velvet will never forget the opportunity he's given her with the vial. All she needs to do is reach for it.

That's why she waits. She lays on the dry dirt, hidden in a bush by the treeline, watching everything that has transpired since the ending of the bloodbath. She was too far away to make out any conversation, but close enough to see the action. The angle wasn't particularly the greatest, having the metallic structure's entrance pointing away from her. But she still managed to see the shock wash over Remy's face as the rapier plunged into his heart.

The arrogant asshole deserved it really. Velvet was fortunate not to have any direct interactions with him, but he simply oozed smug cockiness, it left her crinkling her nose whenever he walked by, to die in surprise, she won't deny a bit of her feels quite satisfied by it.

Velvet remains low to the ground, her compression shirt pressing against the cracked dry mud. She made sure to loosely hide her jacket in another bush, to use as a decoy a few meters down the treeline. A precaution she feels absolutely prudent. Pink doesn't exactly scream camouflage, it does scream three-mile beacon though.

Regardless, the bodies are placed closer to the treeline than the cornucopia, the structure is the center point of the clearing. That being said, she's closer to said structure than the bodies, them being piled nearly across from her.

It's why she waits. She wants to give the pseudo-careers enough time to walk away from the site of the bloodbath, as in doing so, her only real worry will be the girl from 2. Knowing this however, doesn't do much for the loud thumping of her heart. She's anxious, even in her efforts of patience, she just wants to get up and dash towards the bodies, scavenge the vial and flee. In all of this waiting, there's an underlying desire to rush.

Velvet knows better, the only thing she'd be rushing to is her death, and conveniently enough, she would quite literally add to the pile of dead.

So instead, she festers in her impatience, grateful for the shade the bush provides, but immediately regretting how stuffy it is. She waits until it becomes unbearable to any longer, slowly shuffling out from under the thick bush. She contemplates whether it's worth leaving her jacket before shaking her head. It's humid and hot, yet they were geared in jackets. That has to mean the nights get cold, or something will happen that demands more layers.

With that in mind, she quietly goes to fetch it from the bush a few yards away. She has her head on a swivel as she goes for her jacket, hastily shoving it into her bag. She dusts herself off before slowly making her way around down the treeline, enough to have it in sight, but not enough to be seen, or at least, that's what she hopes. She can still peer into the clearing, the metallic sheen a beacon through the foliage.

She slows to a crawl, getting on her fours as the entrance and she align, she peers at the clearing, looking through some of the underbrush. She spots Kyra sitting inside on a crate, with a spear in hand. Velvet's heart constricts, but on closer inspection, it's clear Kyra isn't staring at her, but into the distance, aimlessly as If distracted.

Sighing in relief, Velvet continues the crawl well pass the metallic maw. Only then does she rise to her feet and continue the silent nerve-wracking trip to the corpses.

She gets herself in the closest possible position from the trees before inhaling a deep breath. She fetches out a small dagger, just one of the countless laying around the cornucopia, it won't do much if Kyra uses her as target practice, but Velvet can't deny the reassurance she gains from simply having it in her hand.

She slowly ventures from the trees, remaining low as she scurries towards the bodies. They don't smell, something that surprises Velvet, especially given the humidity, but then again she's never really seen many people dead before. So she'd hardly call herself an expert on human decomposition.

She shakes her head, ridding herself of the distracting, and morbid thoughts as she crouches behind the bodies. They don't give much cover anyways, but Kyra hasn't left the cornucopia it seems. She's guarding her supplies, corpses probably don't carry much value to her.

Velvet sighs in relief as she tries to find Nylon from the pile. She freezes, pausing over Remy's body, and examining it for a second. She chews on her lip before deciding she might as well and silently unbuckles his knife holster. It might come in handy, assuming she finds another knife. With her new prize acquired, she continues scavenging through the bodies.

She ignores how her hands become stained red, not knowing who's it belongs to. She's firmly aware of the hygienic and medical concerns that come with blood trying to seep into her skin. But, she needs this poison, she's willing to rummage through corpses to get it, blood stains come with the territory.

Eventually, Velvet finds Nylon, her breathe hitching at the sight of him, or what's left. It makes her stomach squirm, others had their necks slit, but no one had their face disfigured as badly as him, Calder may come close, but… no, She won't think on it.

Instead, she starts patting his pockets down, starting with his jackets before moving to his pants. It's a quick process, a hasty one as she finds herself feeling considerably less enthused now that she's looking over bodies. Eventually, she finds it, and pulls the vial from his pant pocket, she inspects it closely, checking for cracks or possibly breaches.

After a quick preliminary check, she pockets the vial, deciding that there's many better places for a more thorough check, as long as it doesn't break in her pocket and sink into her pores, she doesn't care.

She turns from the corpses and comes face to face with an arrow notched in a bow. Her eyes widen before slowly tracing up, finding her russet haired ally.

"Har-Harvest?" She whispers confusedly.

He lowers the bow, "Velvet, I apologize. Did you find it?"

His gaze looks beyond her to the fallen tributes. She quickly realizes what that means. Everyone in the alliance knows of the vial, everyone likely vying for it too.

Velvet shakes her head, "No… I think the careers found it when they piled the bodies, although, I doubt they know what it is. Any one of them might have it now, but maybe if we're lucky they'll take a swig from it," Velvet finishes with a small smile.

Harvest quirks an eyebrow but nods, "I understand. Is that… Remy?"

Velvet's smile falls, and she nods grimly, "Yeah, I'll tell you everything I know when we're out of here, despite how it looks, Kyra's still around."

Harvest eyes widen and he quickly nocks the arrow again, "Let's go."

Velvet nods and the two head back into the safety of the forest. A fallacy Velvet realizes ruefully, with the vial in her possession, and her, in this forsaken arena, nowhere is safe.

* * *

_POV – Corolla Beron_

_5:02PM _

Cory doesn't stop. Whenever she wants to, she reminds herself of the consequences of complacency. She can die here, in this wretched and stupid jungle. She won't have it. She won't let it happen. She trudges forward through the seemingly never-ending foliage and greens, stepping over low brushes, and or using large trunks to help her on her slow decline.

It's a stark contrast to the usual grey of the city, not a pleasant one, she reminds herself. The city reminds her of home, even if it smells of sewage or the streets are dangerous, Axel and Fermin make it home.

These trees? A pretty deceit, although beautiful and tall, it simply means others can lurk around the corner, waiting for the right moment to kill her.

She turns, looking over her shoulder, staring at some tall underbrush, seeing it stir in the breeze. She swallows thickly before turning back. She speeds up her pace, anything can spook her here.

Just another reason why she hates it compared to the city. She isn't sure how long she's been walking away. She just picked a direction and didn't stop. She hasn't seen other tributes, hard to when she decides to go directly away from the only spot all 24 of them were in the same place.

With rarely any stops, and only drinking from her water bottle, the odds of someone finding her are slim. However, the more she does, the more likely others can converge on her. Don't stop, never stop. She needs to keep moving, she reminds herself.

She fastens the tap of her bottle before shoving it back into her bag. She quickens her pace, slipping through foliage and stepping over fallen trunks. Eventually, it all comes to a stop, however.

Cory stays in place, just before the treeline. She's hesitant and alert, gripping her knife tightly as she slowly advances to the final few trees.

Looking before it reveals an open field and blue skies. She slowly steps out of the forest and onto a thin strip of stone. This immediately causes her to freeze and look down to examine it curiously. She taps the toe of her right boot against the stone, startled by how out of place it is. She can't help but spent a second gawking at it. The stone strip she stands on feels almost as if it's a border of sorts, or a pathway. She looks to both ends, seeing it stretch beyond the trees. The arena's round she deduces easily, seeing how the path eventually is engulfed by the treeline.

Beyond said pathway is sandy terrain, it makes Cory hesitant, as all she's previously seen was dirt and trees, the new environment leaves her anxious. She doesn't step into it, not willing to do something so stupid. But she does want to continue, she doubts this is the end of the arena, it'd be too small, she has only been walking for half a day at most.

And She's technically on a mountain, even the desert, that she suspects circles the treeline has to lead somewhere. With that in mind, Cory heads back into the forest hastily scrabbling for anything heavy and easy to carry. She moves low branches, plants, and or bushes, eventually settling on a large rock, the size of her palm. It should suffice.

She uses her knife to shovel the stone from out of the dirt, cleaving around the sides. It takes more minutes than she feels reasonable, but, admittedly she spent more time checking her six than digging. Eventually, she manages to pry it from the ground. She pockets her knife as she scoops up the rock in both hands, making sure not to drop it as she quietly makes her way back to the treeline. She steps onto the stone pathway staring off into the desert sands. She swallows nervously before rocking her hands back and forth, building momentum before heaving the stone a few yards onto the desert.

It lands with a muted thump. Even then, it sends a surge of worry through her. She reaches for her knife as she checks her surroundings again, making sure no one pounces from the trees.

As she turns, she hears it, low rumblings that quickly morph into guttural sounds. Cory turns back to the sands to see multiple fins break from the surface beelining to the stone from all directions, as if swarming. They move fast as if shredding through water rather than sand. They quickly erupt from said sands, sending a cloud of dust into the air.

Cory catches glimpses of scales that glimmer against the sunlight before being consumed by the dust. It's incredibly loud, the hissing, the gnashing of teeth, it's going to attract every single living thing to her. Cory's eyes widen as she starts moving. She runs down the stone pathway, her attention lingering at the thrashing creatures, it's almost as if they've been sent into a frenzy. If that was her instead, she'd get torn to parts. Killed by mutts, she realizes with a disgusted frown.

She's wasted too much time here. She needs to find a way around this desert, the path, it might lead past it. But, no matter what, she will not try to go through it. Cory's many things but being mutt bait isn't one of them.

At least, the small consolation is, she's likely found out something no other tribute has.

Now she just needs to know how to use it.

* * *

_POV – Newton Faraday_

_9:58PM _

Although the day is scorching hot, the night brings nothing but chills, causing his teeth to clatter and his body to shiver. He hugs himself for warmth, a fruitless effort, and he wonders if everyone else is as cold as him.

He's walked alone and aimlessly, only waiting a bit for his allies before deciding he had to leave. It, it really bothered him to abandon his allies like that, and now he's plagued with the uncertainty of their fate. Would they even want him back anymore? He didn't do as he promised, he lied to them.

But he couldn't stay, the bloodbath was wrapping up, and although he didn't see much happen, he did see some people die.

The girl from 11, boy from 8, he saw them go down so easily, so quickly. He dipped into the trees then, fearing that if he lingered for too long, he'd get killed by a wayward arrow or javelin. He didn't immediately leave once in the sanctuary of the trees, but he didn't look to the bloodbath either.

_Stupid, stupid, never take your eyes off the battlefield, that sounds militant, right? _

He shakes his head. Now he feels silly, like a child pretending to be a soldier when in reality he's more likely a corpse pretending to be alive. He didn't manage to get a weapon, not even a dagger, not a sleeping roll either, and his alliance, if they survive, could even begrudge, or target him. Newt went from feeling secure in the company of 4 others in a rich apartment floor, to alone in the chilled forest night. The reversal of fortune is such a violent twist it could give him whiplash.

He chews on his lip, and once again scans his surroundings, or what he can make of it. The darkness embraces the trees in shadows, making them look ominous and foreboding, frightening even. The sun only recently set, and his eyes have yet to accustom to the darkness. They will soon though, he realizes, and then he wouldn't feel so helpless.

But as he is now, he might as well be blind, seeing no more than a few feet in front of the tree he finds himself resting against.

His bag lays gingerly overtop him in a ridiculous effort to mimic a blanket. Despite that, sleep is basically impossible for him. How can he, knowing that the moment sleep claims him, there's an underlying fear he may never wake up?

Music blares loudly, sending a wave of fear course through him, he jolts, practically jumping to his feet and clutching his bag, eyes going wide before squinting in the darkness. Light breaks through the high leaves, causing Newt to look upwards, seeing the sigil of Panem flash across the starless sky. Underneath, reads 'The Fallen', and Newt quickly understands what's happening.

It both calms and startles him, knowing that he has nothing to immediately fear. However, the trepidation swirling in his stomach now has him worrying about the fate of his allies, or former ones at least.

The first face to appear surprises Newt the most. The boy from 2, his mouth smirking confidently, and his face tilting upwards slightly as if looking down on everyone in the arena. A career, the career, if Newt remembers the scores correctly. Newt is unsure what to think, other than overwhelming relief to know the biggest threat this group of tributes can offer is dead. He frowns, not particularly pleased with himself for feeling that way.

The next, is the face of a shy demure looking girl. He never spoke to her, not once, and can't even recall the name of the girl from 3. Her hair looks funny, being that all portraits are digitalized and blue, the streak of hair that he remembers being red looks a dark navy blue that meshes with the sky.

Calder's face is next, causing Newt to freeze, his heart plummeting at the sight of the abrasive teen. His face is scrunched in a frown, defiant and unwilling to give the Capitol any satisfaction. Newt smiles ruefully, not having had any chance to open up the tribute from 4, but if he had enough time, Calder would have made a wonderful ally.

If resigned realization that his alliance suffered losses was what he felt before, then seeing Vortex's portrait next sent a spike of foreboding dread through him, his mouth parting open as his eyes stare wide in horror, looking through the leaves. The tanned boy from 6 was smiling sheepishly in his portrait. Newt finds his mouth feeling suddenly dry.

He stumbles back against the tree as he sees the timid smile on Hazel Redford next. His legs buckle and he slides down against the rough bark, ignoring as it scratches his back. He stares numbly as her face is soon replaced with the boy from 8.

A clenched jaw and stoic expression on his features, it's a bit different to how Newt remembers the boy, they sat beside each other the first day of training, working with bug identification. They didn't speak unless said boy was cracking jokes, but he was always smiling.

Newt doesn't ponder it any longer as the face of Cooper quickly shows up. His heart plummets, the horror dawning on him, ensnaring him in suffocating despair that ultimately leaves him feeling hollow afterward.

The girl from 11 shows up next, the one who stood beside him in the cornucopia. Unsurprising to him he realizes, seeing as he was nearby when she got speared. She probably died slowly and painfully, and that's a chilling thought to have, but none more chilling than realizing he's alone.

No allies with him now, Newt fights in this arena by himself. It's dreadful to realize that everyone he sat with now dies, only to be remembered as faces in the sky. Newt looks up again, catching the tail-end of the boy from 12's charmingly rogue portrait, it disappearing just as he glances at it.

The anthem stops, and soon, the light fades, leaving the black sky once again to consume him in darkness. His thoughts are darker, he thinks.

The silence buzzes in his ears, but even then, he can faintly hear something carry throughout the forest. He tilts his head, trying to make out the sound, only to quickly realize its laughter. It gradually grows louder, and Newt can easily identify amusement in said cackle, along with snide cruelty.

Newt makes to stand, and gathers his bag, he can't imagine who would disclose their location so unabashedly, or who would be so eager or happy to see that many dead in the first day. But Newt suspects he doesn't want to find out.

He heads in the opposite direction, finding that his eyes will just have to get used to the darkness as he moves.

* * *

**_Eulogies_**

**Tesla Eddison: There was a part of Tesla's personality that I loved so much that I just ran with it. Her habit of thinking of such random scenarios was something I personally related to a lot, as I myself daydreamed way too much. The fact she got paired with probably one of the few tributes with a secret conspiracy to them made for a very fun dynamic. Tesla was a lot of fun writing, especially since my mind thinking of the wildest things came in handy for once, XD. Thank-you districtfours for submitting!**

**Remy Cartwright: Remy's an interesting case, probably one of the tributes I feel I did the worst in portraying. I made a lot of mistakes with him to the point where they just ended up being me altering his character. I misread parts of his character and before long, I forced him into a villain role. I however ended up liking it, and stayed the course, as I knew he'd make a very wonderful catalyst for future events down the line. I knew how I wanted his story to end, and that was in the bloodbath. Thanks so much for submitting CluelessWriter23!**

* * *

**_Rankings_**

**24th Calder Lynch Killed by Locust Sequoia**

**23rd Nylon Hemmings Killed by Remy Cartwright**

**22nd Judah Rockefeller Killed by Midnight Tyrian**

**21st Vortex Senna Killed by Remy Cartwright**

**20th Adalyn Plumm Killed by Harrison Jones**

**19th Cooper Dawson Killed by Kyra Boldar**

**18th Hazel Redford Killed by Remy Cartwright**

**17th Tesla Eddison Killed by Remy Cartwright  
**

**16th Remy Cartwright Killed by Mischa Morrigan**

* * *

**The 99th Hunger Games Tributes**

**_District 1: Midnight Tyrian / Mischa Morrigan_**

**_District 2: ELIMINATED / Kyra Boldar_**

**_District 3: Magnus Flux / ELIMINATED_**

**_District 4: ELIMINATED / Cyrus Waterlily_**

**_District 5: Newton Faraday / Emerald Locke_**

**_District 6: ELIMINATED / Corolla Beron_**

**_District 7: Locust Sequoia / ELIMINATED_**

**_District 8: ELIMINATED / Velvet Snijder_**

**_District 9: Harvest Henderson / Sela Fields_**

**_District 10: ELIMINATED / Destry Coleman_**

**_District 11: Harrison Jones / ELIMINATED_**

**_District 12: ELIMINATED / Mila Carway_**


End file.
